


Milton Heights: Growing Love

by DarkwingSnark



Series: Disney AU Collab [1]
Category: Alice in Wonderland (1951), Disney - All Media Types, Disney AU - Fandom, James and the Giant Peach - Roald Dahl, Lady and the Tramp, Milton Heights AU, Winnie The Pooh, neighborhood au - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Romantic Comedy, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-07
Updated: 2013-07-19
Packaged: 2017-12-17 22:53:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 51,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/872885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkwingSnark/pseuds/DarkwingSnark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Milton Heights is the very seat of propriety...after all, the greater part of propriety is hiding what you're doing. And it's best done when you have friends to help you. </i>
</p><p>When Vernon Centipede catches wind of the annual Disney Garden Competition, he decides he should shake things up and throw Mr. Grasshopper's garden into the race against long-time winner, Rabbit. Mr. Grasshopper has the best garden around, after all, with the redhead's skills they could steal that trophy--and the prize money--away easily. All it takes is a little convincing, and the older home owner is quick to give into the request. </p><p>Little did they both know, they were getting way more than they bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cutting Deep

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Milton Heights: Block Party](https://archiveofourown.org/works/827326) by [IncurableNecromantic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IncurableNecromantic/pseuds/IncurableNecromantic). 



> Written simultaneously with _Block Party_ , _Growing Love_ is an alternative account of the budding relationship between Mr. Grasshopper and Mr. Centipede. This story exists in a sub-pocket of the universe in which _Block Party_ takes place.

 

Luncheon was reaching its end and Mrs. Ladybug smiled at Mr. Grasshopper, who gestured for her to relax as he cleared the table. Listening to him turning on the kettle for tea, she walked into the living room to take a more comfortable seat. As she went, she chanced to look out of one of Mr. Grasshopper's front windows and couldn't stop the somewhat silly smile that appeared on her face.

 "Mr. Grasshopper," she called back into the dining room, "does your gardener happen to know that you are home?"

 "I am quite certain he does," Mr. Grasshopper said from the kitchen. "Is something the matter?"

 "Oh, no, not at all," she said, biting the inside of her cheek. "I'm only not certain if this is deliberate or not," Mrs. Ladybug said, mostly to herself.

 The woman’s companion followed her gaze, and Grasshopper could feel himself beginning to grow a violently vibrant hue. Outside his very window was his gardener, stripped of his top. Even from his current distance, he could see sun burnt muscles move about as Mr. Centipede pushed around the gas push mower. Grass stained trousers were noticeable; however, not nearly as much as the glistening sweat rolling off the man’s shoulders and back.

 He looked good enough to eat, if Mr. Grasshopper was perfectly honest, and it was unwise to be perfectly honest when one had company about. He removed his monocle, turned away from the window, and began polishing it with his handkerchief, as much to have something to do with himself as to keep from staring. "Well, it is summer time," he said tightly. "I suppose that we are beyond the point at which we can expect everyone to maintain decency out of doors."

 "Oh, I should think he's better than decent," Mrs. Ladybug said. "He might even be considered 'exemplary.'"

 Mr. Grasshopper polished harder as Mrs. Ladybug put no curb to her ogling.

 Half-blinded as he was, Mr. Grasshopper missed the quick glance and smirk Mr. Centipede threw up towards the window, and Mrs. Ladybug caught it with a cheeky smile and a wiggle of her fingers.

 Mrs. Ladybug undid the lock on the window. Seeing her move, Mr. Grasshopper sighed and stepped away.

 "Good afternoon, Mr. Centipede," Mrs. Ladybug smiled. "Quite a hot day, isn't it?"

 Vern looked over his shoulder, smiling back at the older woman. His grin grew wider as he could see a bit of her companion peeking out to the side of her. The gingered man continue to push around the mower, as his focus was on the two indoors. He made a show of wiping the sweat off his brow, taking his beloved hat off his head while doing so.

 “Phew! You’re tellin’ me! They weren’t kidding with that whole global warming bullcrap, were they? Feels like I’m sweating my balls- er, I mean, feels almost like I’m dying out here! “

 Centipede plopped his hat back on his head, before continuing: “Can’t wait to get this over with so I can go back to them lilies. They got some shade over there that I’m just cravin’ for! “

 Mr. Grasshopper rolled his eyes at the vulgarity. Mrs. Ladybug giggled girlishly.

 "Perhaps you'd like a cold drink?" she asked.

 "Yeah, all right," Centipede said. "I could use a tall drink a'something."

 Mrs. Ladybug leaned back in the window, giving Mr. Grasshopper an excited look.

 "Could you now, Mr. Centipede?" she asked, wiggling her eyebrows at Mr. Grasshopper. Mr. Grasshopper opened his mouth, only to hear an enormous clatter from outside.

 He put down all his tea accoutrement and stuck his head out of the window, concerned. "What happened?"

 Centipede muttered some words not for fit company to himself, as he turned the contraption off. The freckled man had a feeling he knew just how much he screwed up. He violently threw his hat on the ground next to him, as he swore at the machine.

 “Are ya fuckin’ serious?! I hope it’s just stuck an’ I don’t have to go out and replace the blades or somethin’.” His words trailed off as he growled to himself. Vern turned to his boss, furious. He tried to calm himself down, as he tried to explain the situation so Grasshopper wouldn’t start up his griping.

 “Don’t worry ‘bout it, old man. I think a rock musta got lodged in there. Don’t get bent outta shape ‘bout it- I got it covered.” He was about to bend over, when Centipede changed directions and headed towards the shed. Feeling inquiring eyes on his person, the sunburnt man yelled “getting some tools” before stomping out of sight.

 Mr. Grasshopper clicked his tongue and made for his door. "Please keep an eye on the tea, Buggy," he called over his shoulder, trotting down the steps to get a look at the mower. He knew the mower was about a decade old, but it should still be working fine. Looking up to see that Centipede was still in the shed, he checked the gas tank, just in case, and carefully lifted the body of the thing to take a peer under the blades.

 "It must have been a bloody boulder," Mr. Grasshopper grumbled, looking up at Mrs. Ladybug's curious face.

 Mr. Centipede didn’t seem at all surprised to see his boss, as he returned with toolkit in hand. Seeing the mower tilted, he glared. “I said I got this. It’s my fault; I thought I cleared the lawn of debris before I started. I checked TWICE. Just…” The man’s glare became even sterner, as he was clearly frustrated. “Here, let me jus’ see what the damage is.”

 As the freckled man bent over, he made sure to retrieve his cap and slap it over his brow. The heat was angering him even more, and Centipede desperately wanted the shade. But that would have to wait, wouldn’t it? Vern’s gaze turned to the blades. While he didn’t see anything stuck…He DID see some dings to the sharp objects.

 Centipede swore again.

 “Shit, it’s what I figured. Shit!” Not even looking at the older man, Centipede started digging in his tool box. “I’m gonna have'ta take these out. Hopefully I can just sharpen them and they’ll be fine. But if not…”

 If not, they would have to be fully replaced - which took time and money. Time and money most likely out of Centipede’s hard earned paycheck. Time he would have to spend out in the hot weather, even longer, as he repaired the damn thing.

 Mr. Grasshopper frowned at the lawnmower and unbuttoned his coat, flicking it out a little. Just standing outside in the sunshine was enough to make him start to sweat.

 "Well, let me attempt to be of some assistance," he said.

 Vern pulled on a pair of heavy duty gloves and looked Mr. Grasshopper up and down, from the top of his head to the bottom of his shoes and all of the immaculate suit in between. "Ye-eah," Vern said. "I don't think you're going to want to get near this thing."

 Mr. Grasshopper raised an eyebrow. "I assure you, I would be happy to help."

 Vern lightly touched the underside of the mower and held up his blackened, greasy fingers. "You know what you're wearin', right?"

 Mr. Grasshopper rolled his eyes. "I had noticed it briefly," he replied, loosening his tie discreetly. "Let us remove the blade and we can take it inside--it is much too hot to remain out here, stranded."

 The redhead furrowed his brow, thinking it over. On one hand, he KNEW the situation wouldn’t end well. Theodore Grasshopper could have been Jesus himself, and if oil wanted to get all over his expensive suit…It would. Nothing could stop its cruel ways. But on the other hand…It was hotter than Satan’s sauna.

 Oh, fuck it.

 “Alright, okay. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. Roll up your sleeves, and hold the bottom of this piece o’junk. I’m gonna unscrew ‘em.”

 Mr. Grasshopper thought seriously about it for a moment, before shucking his tail coat and hanging it on the newel post of the porch stairs. He rolled up his sleeves and made sure his tie was trapped tight in his waistcoat and held to the bottom of the lawnmower, somewhat concerned about doing this without gloves. "Clear enough?"

 "That'll do."

 Mrs. Ladybug chanced to look out the window and felt her eyebrows bounce up. Theodore down to his shirt-sleeves--practically naked! Deciding that her intervention could be crucial, she hurried off to the kitchen to find something cold to serve.

 After instructing the other where to hold, the shorter man began his work. With socket wrench between his teeth, Mr. Centipede unplugged the spark plug. A safety precaution so the thing wouldn’t start up and accidentally cut a limb off- something he was sure neither of them wanted to occur. He frowned as he realized there was nothing to keep the blades from sliding…Vern would just have to be extra careful. Spitting the wrench out of his mouth, the sunburnt man put the socket to the bolt and began to slowly and carefully undo the blade.

 Theodore must have moved his hands sometime while the other was doing the procedure. For as Mr. Centipede turned to put the blade to the side, the taller man flinched and yelped in alarm. The ginger felt himself go pale, as his eyes widened in alarm.

 “Fucking Christ! Hops, you okay?!”

 Grasshopper didn't let go of the tilted machine, although his expression registered a sharp panic. "Take it," he insisted in a hiss.

 Vern grabbed the chassis of the motor and Grasshopper dropped it like a hot potato, looking sharply at his shaking hands.

 "Damn it," the old man choked, shuddering and wrapping his right hand in his handkerchief. Vern balked to see how quickly the white fabric turned red. "I--I--" he stammered, shaking his head tightly to collect himself.

 Vern carefully set the motor down and got to his feet, just as Grasshopper sprang up himself. Vern grabbed him by the arm, not sure the guy wasn't going to sway on him. "Hops? Come on, man, let's get inside."

 "Yes, of course," Grasshopper said, shaking a little and tightening his grip on his hand. "Rosie?" he called, entering the house with Vern at his side. "We have a--" He tightened his grip again, his hands slick with sweat and blood. "Slight problem."

 Mrs. Ladybug had been busy pouring glasses of her famous peach iced tea, when the two men stumbled into the room. The old woman almost dropped her pitcher, as her keen eyes instantly noticed the blood stained cloth.

 “Theodore! What in heavens’ name happened?”

 As she put the pitcher down and quickly went for a first aid kit, knowing the home owner kept one in almost every room of the house -especially the kitchen; the youngest male of the group tried to steer the elder to the table. As the older man wearily plopped down, Centipede stayed by his side- feeling too shaken by the incident as well.

 Mr. Grasshopper tried to reassure his lady companion.

 “It’s merely a knick, nothing more. No reason to fuss too much.” Part of him wondered if his words were for himself, as well as the others. “Just a quick stitch work and it should be right as rain.”

 “Bullshit,” vulgar words sputtered from Vern Centipede’s lips, “blades like that, even dinged and dulled ones, hurt like hell. That’s a deep cut, and it was my fault. Shoulda made sure…”

Mr. Grasshopper scowled, tensing his body to try to end the faint quivers that wracked him. He felt startled and a little nauseous, yes, but also completely stupid. Vern should've checked, but he should've asked. "I want you to do me the kindness, Mr. Centipede," he said in a terse voice, "of determining the proper way to dispose of that machine. I find myself in the position of preferring to buy a new one than repair that one."

 Mrs. Ladybug sat beside him with the kit and a bowl of hot water. She took Mr. Grasshopper's hand in her own and unwrapped his handkerchief. The blade had gotten him along the proximal phalanx of his thumb and as it bled, his skin was slightly stained red. Vern took a look at it and felt himself sway suddenly, goosebumps rising on his bare skin.

 Mrs. Ladybug picked her head up immediately. "Vern, dear," she said firmly. "Perhaps you could collect Mr. Grasshopper's coat from outside."

 "Yeah," Vern said rather faintly, turning away from the blood and immediately feeling better. He stepped outside to grab their clothes.

 "Here you are, my dear," Mrs. Ladybug said, carefully cleaning the wound and smiling as he only hissed softly. "You're all right with me."

 "Although I would not express it so, 'hurts like hell' would seem to be the correct description," Mr. Grasshopper said, his teeth gritted. "Bloody idiocy."

 "You're not kidding anyone, you old fool," Mrs. Ladybug said affectionately, wiping away watery blood and pouring disinfectant onto a swab. "Pretending it doesn't hurt. This will take a little doing, my dear, so 'right as rain' you certainly shall not be. You're going to be banned from your instruments until I've decided it's healed."

 Meanwhile, Mr. Centipede found himself grateful to be away from the blood; though, a part of himself also felt like a pansy for getting sick over the sight of it. It wasn’t even something that happened to HIM, and he still grew shaky at the sight of all the red liquid pouring from Theodore’s wounded hand.

 Because it happened to somebody he cared about.

 Centipede abruptly stopped in his tracks as he came upon the dreaded lawn mower. The machine’s chipped paint seemed to mock him, as he swore he felt the contraption give him a smile. The redhead glared, as he gave the thing a kick.

 “Fuck you, piece of shit! That’s why you’re getting the worse I have to offer. Dismantled and gutted for parts and sold so far and wide nobody will eva’ be able t’ putcha back togetha again!”

 Seeing the machine fall over onto its side gave Vern great satisfaction. And as he turned to go grab the navy coat off the fence, he found himself jump as he heard the loudest f-bomb the ginger had ever heard in his life, let alone the whole quiet neighborhood.

 Centipede couldn’t help but smile as he held the coat in his hand, as he laugh to himself despite it all.

 “So much for class, eh?”

 "Theodore!" Mrs. Ladybug gasped, though her hands remained steady as she carefully drew the stitch through her friend's skin. "I am appalled!"

 Mr. Grasshopper held his forehead in his free hand, elbow pressing hard against the table. He tried to keep from shaking. The cut had hurt. The knowledge that he couldn't play had hurt. And though he could maintain his composure over them both, separately, together and combined with the hideous sensation of a needle and thread moving through the flesh of his sensitive hands abruptly made it all too much and the considerable pain overwhelmed his sense of decency.

 “I stand by it," he said in a milder tone. "It was the right thing to say at the time."

 "I should hope you could take this sort of thing like a man, Mr. Grasshopper," Mrs. Ladybug said. "I'm making the next stitch. Do you think you can control yourself now?"

 Mr. Grasshopper flicked the fingers of his unwounded hand to indicate his readiness, even as he kept his face turned away from the sight of her sewing up his hand.

 Mrs. Ladybug inserted the needle.

 "Bugger," Mr. Grasshopper said, more quietly. He tensed up, feeling that ugly drag and pull on his skin. "Bugger."

 "You're so vulgar," Mrs. Ladybug tutted, a smile trying to make its way onto her lips. "Stop tensing up, my dearest, you're making this harder than it ought to be. Shaking won't help either of us. I've never heard you use such filthy language."

 "How often have you seen me bleeding this much?" he asked reasonably. She made another stitch. "Oh, fuck me, that's bloody evil."

 "Well shit," said the grinning Mr. Centipede, who entered the house with his shirt on his back and open down the front, Mr. Grasshopper's coat in his hand. "And here I thought I was the one with the dirty mouth."

 “And you still are,” Grasshopper said with a stiff upper lip. Even in his pain, he couldn’t help but feel some disappointment in seeing his gardener return with his shirt on, rather than exposing his lovely freckled shoulders. Talk about a bad day getting worse! And with his frustration and pain, the olive-toned man felt his brow furrow in a glare. “I think I’ve earned the right to use a choice word or two, all things considered.”

 Centipede couldn’t find argument in that.

 “Yeah, well…It’s still a funny thing to hear a guy like you let one rip. Not that I find this situation something to laugh at, and all. But…You know.” Whether they really understood what the Brooklyn man was saying meant little difference to Mr. Centipede. What DID matter to him was that their little emotional roller coaster had caused him to become tired; so, as the woman of the group finished up her stitches, Vern found himself a seat at the small kitchen table. He took his cap off, out of an instilled habit.

 “I know I said it before, but I really AM sorry.”

 Mrs. Ladybug tied off the thread and set about placing a clean bandage on the wound. Sighing with relief to know that he wasn't going to have any more sharp objects moving in, near, or around his hand, Mr. Grasshopper's lips quirked in a thin smile.

 "I appreciate your concern," he said. "Thank you."

 "Any event," Centipede said, lacing his fingers together and stretching them a little, "I know some guys who'll tear that bucket of bolts apart, no problem. Y'might just get more from selling it for scrap than it was worth to buy it."

 Mrs. Ladybug gave her handiwork one more close look and relinquished Mr. Grasshopper's hand to his custody. "There you are, my dear," she said. "Now, I'm serious. Do not do anything stressful to it until I've had a look at it and tell you it can bear the strain."

 Mr. Grasshopper sighed. No violin. No piano. Certainly not even his own amateurish fidgetings with a cello. Just…silence, or conversation, or whatever on earth it was non-musical people did with their time.

 "Well," he said, running the tips of the fingers of his good hand over the clean, fresh bandage, "I suppose I shall at least have the prospect of lawn mower shopping to entertain me."

 "Certainly," Mrs. Ladybug said. "That shall keep you quite busy." Mrs. Ladybug snapped off the latex gloves she was wearing and began to tidy up the refuse of her impromptu surgery. "Mr. Centipede, dearie, do you suppose you could help me set out a little refreshment? I'm sure you boys could stand to have a drink."

 Vern got to his feet with a little creaking of his bones. "Yeah, all right," he said, smiling thinly. "You got anything stronger than peach iced tea in there?"

 "We'll take a look. Mr. Grasshopper won't mind, will you, dear?" Mrs. Ladybug asked with a cheeky smile.

 Mr. Grasshopper waved at her and set about unrolling his sleeves and twisting back into his coat. "My home is yours," he remarked dryly.

 In the kitchen, Mrs. Ladybug poured out three glasses of tea. "Make sure he buys something nice," Mrs. Ladybug said, smiling at Vern. "He doesn't know what's best for himself, you know. Try to talk him into something really good."

 Centipede grinned smugly, as he accepted his glass.

 “Don’t worry; I’ll make sure he buys the most expensive thing in the joint.”

 His beam widen as that was his actual plan. He couldn’t help but chuckle a little as he thought of trying to convince the old man to buy a mower he could sit and drive in. If he told the older man it was for the garden, and not just for him to cut a few corners once a week, the ginger haired man was almost positive he could do it.

 All it took was some…persuasion.


	2. Handling One's Equipment

It was early the next morning that Mr. Grasshopper found himself in a horrible mood. The night before had not been so kind. After having to cancel a performance, go a whole evening without playing a single note, and then constantly wake during the night from pain…It also didn’t help that the very little sleep he DID have was filled with intoxicating visions of half-dressed gardeners parading through his dreams, tempting him with coy smiles and lewd words.

Grasshopper’s frown increased in severity as he heard his doorbell ring. As he sat at the table, sipping his morning cup of tea, his dear caretaker and lovely companion went to go fetch the door.

“It’s probably your handsomely rugged knight,” she singed, “ come to take you away from this gloom your surrounded yourself in.”

“Bah humbug,” was all the humor the white fox had in him.

Mrs. Ladybug was not moved by this expression of dark humor and opened the door with all the cheerfulness in the world. "Good morning, Mr. Centipede," she said, for sure enough it was Mr. Grasshopper's freckled knight.

"Ma'am," he said with a rakish grin, popping his cap off his head and bouncing his eyebrows. "Permission to come aboard?"

"Granted," Mrs. Ladybug chirped. "But I warn you, he's positively beastly today."

If Vern hadn't had personal experience with the outermost limits of Grasshopper's temper, he would've thought that the old man's "beastly" was everybody else's "genteel."

"Oh yeah?" Vern asked. "Think he'll try to pop me if I look at him funny?"

"Of course not, dear," Mrs. Ladybug said. "But he might growl at you a little."

Vern had a brief notion that that wasn't all that much of a bad thing at all, before he straightened his cap on his head. "Well then. Lemme see if I can perk 'im up a little."

"If anyone can..." Mrs. Ladybug smiled to herself.

Mr. Grasshopper rose from his seat to nod at Mr. Centipede and Mrs. Ladybug behind him. The old man looked a little rough, no two ways about it. He mustn't've rested well the night before, which surprised Centipede, because after all the excitement he'd slept like a rock.

"Good morning," Grasshopper said. "I suppose you'll want to be taking a look at a few mowers today."

"That's the plan," Vern replied. "Think you can spare a little time to run around with me?"

Grasshopper looked at him for a moment before picking up his tea again and quickly taking a sip. Vern couldn't help but grin at that--maybe a heaping helping of the ol' Centipede charm was what he needed to try and get that riding mower. Worth a shot!

"Very well," Grasshopper said, clearing his throat. "I trust now is convenient? Let us take a look at what some of the shops have to offer."

Centipede placed an arm around the older man’s waist, escorting his boss out of his home. He could feel Mr. Grasshopper posture go stiffer, and smiled. If the guy got any straighter, he could use him to balance on.

Though, it was neither the time nor the place to think about being on top of ol’ Hops.

As they got to the driveway, however, Theodore stopped and raised a brow.

“Mr. Centipede,” He began, “I thought you said you took public transportation.”

“I do, usually.”

“Then who, pray tell, does this automobile belong to?”

Vern walked up to his baby girl, grinning fondly. His hand touched the smooth red paint-job, before glancing back at his boss. “This here’s my girl Jessie. Bought her right before they junked her, and fixed her up myself. I don’t ride her often, with how the price a’ gas is these days, n’ sometimes she can be old and fidgety.” He paused to make sure Grasshopper was paying attention, before continuing. “But she can keep up with the best of ‘em. And what can I say, I think I like ‘em old and fidgety. If ya catch my drift.”

Even if Mr. Grasshopper were the type to be oblivious to such a statement, the wink Mr. Centipede gave him would've forced him to notice what was going on. His fingers itched with the sudden urge to remove his monocle and have something to busy his hands, but instead he lightly touched the tips of his fingers to the chrome lining of the vehicle's window.

Feeling the smooth, sun-warmed metal beneath his hand, he tried to rapidly sort out what Mr. Centipede was up to. Flirting, obviously, but to what end? He couldn't know until he had more data. He had the distinct suspicion that he was being mocked.

Several different response ran through his head, ranging from a cold “I believe I catch it perfectly well” to a mild “You have taken admirable care of your vehicle” to a very unwise “One hopes you would find more time to ride the old and fidgety things you like so well.”

“Yes, quite,” was what he said instead. “It is very handsome and, I hope, safe.”

“‘Course she’s safe,” Centipede replied, giving her an affectionate spank on the side. “Fixed her myself, didn’t I?”

Mr. Grasshopper held his tongue. “Naturally.”

Centipede nodded firmly. “C’mon, then--time’s a-wasting.”

Mr. Grasshopper opened the door and carefully slid into the passenger’s seat, performing the usual contortions necessary to comfortably fit his admittedly somewhat abnormal body into a vehicle. Seat belts, indications of airbags, everything about where it should be. He glanced up at the door and found that there was no grab handle attached to the car ceiling and wondered, briefly, if there was simply no need for it or if it had snapped off in the hand of some other passenger.

Glancing out the window, he saw Mrs. Ladybug step out onto the porch and catch his eye. She grinned and gave him two thumbs up. Mr. Grasshopper snapped his gaze forward, demonstrating the titanic power of his will in not hiding his face in his hands.

He had a small window of hope that Mr. Centipede had not noticed her, but the breathy chuckle from the other man as he got in eliminated that possibility.

Mr. Grasshopper sat up straight and stiffened his upper lip. “Very spacious,” he remarked, hoping that keeping the other man focused on his car would prevent any more of his unsettlingly pleasant rambunctiousness.

“Well, large and me have always gone hand n’ hand. “ Without looking over, Centipede’s grin turned from amusement to smug. He started up the car, clutching the stick shift. “Though, I see with you it’s always a tight fit, huh? I’ll make sure to ride easy for ya. I’ll admit, for long periods, Jessie can be a bit uncomfortable. But I know a place not too far that should have what we need. So we won’t be in the car forever.”

Theodore Grasshopper had always considered himself quite lucky to have been able to dodge the tendency towards insanity that plagued so many musicians--when he crested the middle point of his life with a mind as sound and as powerful as any he had met, he thought he’d done quite well.

Now, of course, he knew that all it took was a single 24 hours without access to his instruments to hurl him into the clutch of stark lunacy. There was no other explanation but that he was suffering from auditory hallucinations. It was impossible that Vernon Centipede had just said that to him.

He scrambled for the thread of the conversation. “Good. Wonderful. I should not wish to detain you any longer than necessary.”

Mr. Centipede pulled up to a stop light and shifted gears. So far, Mr. Grasshopper had been relieved by how the man drove--granted, they were on a rather quiet street, but this was still the city, and in his long years of living here, he’d seen some automotive acrobatics that were nothing short of stupefying. Mr. Centipede was refreshingly normal.

Until he saw a green stoplight.

“Ah, tourists,” Mr. Centipede commented, passing a small sedan with seeming inches to spare and shifting gears with a rough jerk of his arm. Jessie growled happily beneath him. “You gotta swim like a fish, you know what I mean?”

Mr. Grasshopper swallowed his heart, which had leapt into his throat, and frowned. “You certainly do not waste time,” he said tightly, thinking ruefully of the nonexistent grab handle.

Seeing the panic in the other, the freckled man felt a twinge of guilt as he saw the older man shelter his injured hand.

“Sorry ‘bout that. I just know how people can be. But I’ll be more gentle fer your sake.” With one hand still on the wheel, the other patted his pants pockets trying to find his cigar. Taking it out, he stuffed it between his teeth.

Grasshopper raised his nose in retaliation.

“I certainly hope you don’t plan on SMOKING that putrid thing in front of me. You might be fine with the very idea of cancer corroding your insides, but I don’t cherish the thought!”

“Now now, just calm yer bosom there.” Mr. Centipede waved off the hostility. “I wasn’t plannin’ on lightin’ up. Just more out o’ habit, ya know? Doesn’t feel like I’m drivin’ without it in my mouth.”

‘Though,’ Vern mused to himself, ‘ I wonder what the geezer would have said if I added “my lips tend to go lonely withoutta companion”?’ He smirked as he shook his head at his thoughts, before looking over at the olive-toned man in the driver seat. “’Sides,” he voiced, “ just a corner or so, and we’ll be there.”

“Marvelous,” Mr. Grasshopper said. By the time he noticed that ‘just a corner or so’ really meant more than a few blocks, Mr. Centipede was swerving smoothly into a parking spot on the street with the most minimal motions possible. Well. He might drive like a lunatic, but it would be quite wrong to say that he didn’t know how to handle his car.

Mr. Grasshopper slipped out of the car with a sigh of relief. Across the sidewalk, he could already see a line of riding mowers for sale.

Such a bulky contraption was of course perfectly useless for Mr. Grasshopper’s needs. His lawn was precisely ten feet by fifteen feet in dimension and a riding mower would be much too large for such a project.

Seeing Mr. Centipede wandering up to the machines and running a hand over them, Mr. Grasshopper saw that they obviously did not agree.

“Now this is what I’m talkin’ about!” Vern said. “That’ll cut mowing time in half, easy!”

“By virtue of it being nearly half the size of the lawn, yes,” Mr. Grasshopper replied, frowning a little. “I think not.”

“Come on, Hops, think about it. Ain’t bigger, better?”

Theodore removed his monocle, giving it a good rub with his handkerchief. The white haired man used the time to control himself before he revealed just how much he appreciated the, ah, “larger things in life.” Feeling composed, he placed the eye-wear back where it belonged.

“Sometimes it’s about necessity, rather than the things we want, Mr. Centipede. And my position on the matter is firm; I don’t require the services of such a devise in regards to my yard. You’ll do fine with a new, and a more size and economic friendly, push mower.”

The red-head grinned, as he leaned onto one of the mowers.

“So you’re sayin’ ya prefer smaller toys to play with, huh?”

“Ye-What?” Grasshopper was taken back for a moment, as he fought against his body’s sudden urge to turn the older man into a permanent blush. “No, no that was NOT what I was getting at. I was merely saying-”

“Saying that you’re able to handle things in larger quantity?”

“Cease with the vulgarity; my handlings have nothing to do with this situation in the slightest.”

“So that’s a ‘yes’ then? Good! We’ll jus’ walk inside n’ tell the clerk we’ll be takin’ THIS mower then!”

“Certainly not!” Mr. Grasshopper leaned down to take a closer look at the fact sheet attached to the mower. “Here--as I strongly suspected.” He held the fact sheet towards Mr. Centipede, his eyeglass positioned above a small section of data. “Were you not some little while ago speaking of the price of gasoline? Pray observe and rectify your opinion.”

Vern closed one eye and squinted through the glass. Yeah, the gas mileage on this thing was hellish. “C’mon, now, that don’t signify,” he said, shrugging. “How often are you going to have to fill it up?”

“I should also point out,” Mr. Grasshopper said, letting the fact sheet down, “that the machine itself is cumbersome and would be ungainly to maneuver. It would become profoundly difficult to produce the exact effect that I have come to appreciate with a tool this large.”

Mr. Centipede’s grin widened as he prepared to speak and in an instant Mr. Grasshopper knew what he was about to say. But no. He would have no more of this embarrassing, bawdy talk--it was high time they entered the shop and got serious about finding an appropriate device.

“Although I suppose,” Mr. Grasshopper added with a chilly, superior look, “you about to tell me that you have a great deal of experience in handling large tools--and I confess that I am somewhat certain that you do. Be that as it may, I think your proposal, or at least its tone, is relatively disingenuous and so I am unmoved.”

He tugged on his cuffs, snapping them crisp and taut. “Besides,” he said with a rather smutty smirk, “I sincerely doubt, in this case, that your efforts, be they ever so admirably diligent, would be sufficient to please me.”

He turned on his heel and walked into the shop.

Centipede stood there with his mouth agape- in the state of shock. Well, damn. The old man had some fight in him after all! Not that he hadn’t seen it before- he had! But even in his state of anger, Theodore Grasshopper stayed collected. He would filter his words, wanting to say one thing, and saying another. (Vern wasn’t stupid; he could tell when a guy wanted to say “eff-off” and instead throw out a more reasonable comment.) But hearing the lanky man’s last innuendo…

The ginger full out beamed, as he fixed his hat and follow the old geezer. Oh, Mr. Grasshopper, you were becoming more and more interesting by the minute! Who knew there was a lewd old man underneath all that class?

“I think things jus’ got more fascinatin’!”

* * *

 

“I think you jus’ lost your damn mind, old man!”

Centipede glared at the taller male, as he gestured to the sorry excuse of a machine next to him. All the fun was sucked from the trip more and more, the deeper they went into the store, and the more frugal Mr. Grasshopper became. But Vern could have let him get away with it…And he would have, too! He would have happily went about his business, agreeing to just a nicer gas powered mower. It was his job, after all, and Theodore DID have a point about the lawn being too small for a driven one.

But this…

“You honestly want me to cut your grass with a hand powered push mower?!” Vernon roared. “Do ya know how much they wear a guy out? It already felt like it took a million years cutting the stuff before…But with THIS piece of junk it’ll take me to midnight to get anything done- and that’s not even countin’ me taking care of your damn daffodils, your irritating irises, and your frou-frou foxgloves!”

“I hardly see how my flowers have done you such grave disservice as to earn such unkind adjectives.”

“The flowers ain’t the point!”

“It is a far more economical, and I think I need not mention ecologically decent, choice,” Mr. Grasshopper said, adjusting his eyeglass and smiling benevolently down on the rickety little push mower. “And I daresay we shall do our duty if we refrain from contributing to noise pollution.”

“You know these things don’t do shit, right?” Vern asked, switching his unlit cigar to the other side of his mouth and chomping on it. What he wouldn’t do to light up! “Might as well give me a broom and send me out to flatten the grass! Gimme a scythe and I’ll go out there and reap the damn stuff!”

“Nonsense,” Mr. Grasshopper sniffed. “I myself operated a device much like this when I was a younger man, and I daresay that it was a most rewarding physical experience.”

“Hey man, you wanna cut your own grass with that thing, be my guest,” Vern replied. “But I ain’t gonna use this thing. It’s ancient and it’ll never work right!”

“Silly me,” Mr. Grasshopper said, lifting an eyebrow. “Here I thought you liked ‘old and fidgety.’”

Centipede fumed quietly. “Old and fidgety, but not dead,” he replied.

Mr. Grasshopper tilted his head, looking at the machine. “Perhaps it lacks anima,” he admitted. “But I should at least like to find something that made less noise and burnt less gasoline than my old machine.”

“Well, ya don’t gotta go whole hog!” Vern replied. “Look around, Hops, anything built in the last decade’ll be lightyears ahead of that crapsack old motor!”

Mr. Grasshopper did look around, noticing that there were other models in the cheaper price range that did seem more reasonable. And also small enough that it would take up less of the shed…

“Well, all right then.” The older man finally said, with a sniff. “I will relax my stance some; however, only if you can provide me with satisfactory alternatives. You know my criteria, and you also have your own knowledge in this field, which, although sometimes conflicting with my own tastes, DOES certainly get the job done. Pleasingly so, might I add. And since, as you pointed out earlier, it isn’t I who will be doing the manual labor…I suppose I, too, can be accommodating.”

“So,” the shorter man said after a pause, “That means no hand mower, right?”

“As of this moment, no. Though, I am still keeping it in mind if we can’t agree on anything reasonable.”

Centipede laughed, “You got a sadist in ya, you know that? Alright then, let me see if I can pitch ya somethin’ ‘more reasonable’ then! I think I recall walking by a pretty lil’ TORQ number that is jus’ callin’ your name!”

The TORQ number was not especially pretty or little, by Mr. Grasshopper’s estimation, but there were no very serious disagreements after the matter of the push-vs.-riding mower. The only thing for which Mr. Grasshopper would consider sacrificing frugality for was a more environmentally-friendly model, and Vern did his level best to steer the old man away from any models that didn’t have self-propulsion.

“Well, now,” Mr. Grasshopper murmured, taking a look at the fact sheet of an electrical model. Vern walked around the machine, taking a look at the blades and carefully popped the lid of the thing, taking a look under the hood.

“Ain’t bad,” Mr. Centipede remarked, glancing up to see that there was a lever for self-propulsion. “Whatta ya think, Hops? Pretty sweet, ain’t it?”

Mr. Grasshopper replaced his monocle and smiled slightly, running his good hand across the long black handle. It was a button-start and it was with a small twinge of disappointment that he reflected on the likely bygone days of pull-cord starts. There had been something rather lovely in the motions of a body performing the necessary maneuvers to start the old mower, the extension of the arms and the twist of the hips.

But he imagined that he could adjust.

“I rather like it,” he admitted, drumming his fingers against the handle. “Do you suppose it conforms to your taste as well, Mr. Centipede?”

“It’s red,” Centipede stated the obvious, with a smirk, “So it’ll do. But as for functionality, and all that jazz, I think it’ll do the job. It ain’t a drive, but this should at least make it easier than the last piece of junk you had. Oh-ho yeeeah, he’ll do juuust fine.”

“’He?’ Isn’t it tradition to refer to beloved items with femininity?”

“You sayin’ guys can’t be ‘beloved’? ‘Sides, this one just seems like a man’s man. Tough, bulky n’ strong, and handsome. And a hard worker. It would be insult to name a guy like this ‘Veronica’. I ain’t gonna treat him like that, before we even get acquainted.

“Though…seeing as he’ll be yours, I think you should give him a name.”

Mr. Grasshopper couldn’t help but smile thinly. “I have no experience naming inanimate objects,” he replied.

“Yer shittin’ me. You didn’t name that violin of yours?”

“Of course not,” he replied. “It had a name before it came into my hands. My personal instrument is a Vuillaume.”

“Ye-eah.” Centipede slapped the machine, producing a sharp clank. “Got some muscle on this guy. Whatta ya think?”

Mr. Grasshopper rolled his eyes and took a look at the model number, memorizing it. “Why don’t we buy it and then I’ll see if a name occurs to me.”

“Fair enough,” Vern shrugged. “Better not get too attached outta the gate, huh?”

“Precisely.”

“You and me are gonna have some fun, fella,” Vern said in a low, smirking tone to the lawn mower, giving it a second little slap.

Mr. Grasshopper straightened up again, clearing his throat. “Er. Well. That remains to be seen, doesn’t it?”

“Don’t listen to the old grouch, “ Vern continued to tease, “He’s just jealous he can’t keep up with two young handsome guys like us. He’ll jus’ haveta sit on the sidelines n’ watch us have our fun without ‘im.”

The older male raised a brow. “Oh? If that’s the case, I suppose we could always leave this….’young gentleman’, here so I won’t find myself covetous of your special relationship. We could always go back to the FIRST option.”

“Nah, no. No way,” the freckled man lifted the mower off the raised platform. “We are buying this fella’. Case closed. Come on, gramps, let’s scram.”

Mr. Grasshopper maintained a composed air as he paid for the machine, although the price tag made Vern wince and lie low, lest it come out of his paycheck. But Mr. Grasshopper made no mention of the expense, aside from a question about delivery. Since Vern was not keen to risk Jessie’s back seat to accommodate the new, studly lawn mower, he agreed to do the little bit of assembly needed to get the thing running when it arrived.

The mower was dropped off during the following afternoon, and not a second too soon. Mr. Grasshopper, without anything else to do with himself, had apparently been glancing out the window at the yard every fifteen minutes and making worried expressions. When he got off work, Vern put it together, relieved that he hadn’t been there during the day or the old man would probably have sent him out back with a pair of scissors.

Vern stood back and looked at his handiwork when he was finished, pleased. It was a damn good mower, and it was damn nice to work with a fancy new machine.

"Buzz, I think,” Mr. Grasshopper said from the back door, looking out on the progress. “It would seem to be an appropriate name,” he added, handing Vern a glass of water.

“No shit, you were still thinking about that?” Vern asked, taking a large gulp of water.

“I said I would,” Mr. Grasshopper replied, stepping out onto the freshly mowed grass and casting an admiring eye over the garden, arms held behind his back. “I think we were right to invest in new tools, Mr. Centipede...this is quite perfect.”

Vern looked around, wiping his brow with his handkerchief. Yeah, it was all right...but he had a plan or two in the works to make this little slice of land really special.

And it looked like he’d warmed Grasshopper up to putting a little seed money into the place. That would make his plans so much easier.


	3. Idle Hands and What Comes of Them

The rest of the week, however, was nowhere near as successful. Aside from the few lessons he taught during the week--most of which left him frustrated more than relieved of his music-less state--Mr. Grasshopper was left to twiddle his fingers. Mrs. Ladybug encouraged him to go on walks with her and did her best to help him keep up his spirits, but he was inconsolable. By day three, he was miserable. By day five, he was having trouble mustering the will to get out of bed.

Mrs. Ladybug walked up the steps of his house on the sixth morning after the accident and could hear, even from outside, how loudly he was playing his recording of Verdi’s Requiem. This was so very melodramatic, she thought. He was not kidding, when he said he was of the theatrical bent--she’d hardly ever seen anyone pining harder. And he only needed to rest for a few more days, anyway. He couldn’t play now, but he acted as if he’d never play again.

She sighed and opened the door.

Mr. Grasshopper was lying on his back on his sofa, arm slung across his eyes, monocle held in his limp good hand. Everything about him said “leave me here to die,” but Mrs. Ladybug had other ideas.

“Now Theodore, this is not any way a grown man like yourself should be behaving. “

Mr. Grasshopper merely groaned, seemingly lost his love for verbal play, or words at all, really.

“None of that, love, it’s time to get you out for some sun. Why, you’re positively wilting away in here! Come on, up up. We got to get you lively enough so your handsome gardener will want to put on a show for you. And I don’t know many people wanting to perform for a corpse!”

Mrs. Ladybug turned off the record player, hearing her friend merely groan again, unmoved even by her affectionate teasing. However, he wasn’t quite despondent enough to be ungentlemanly, so he sat up and smoothed back his hair, trying to find the will to straighten his back. He swung his monocle lightly between his fingers and put it on with a sigh.

Looking at him, Mrs. Ladybug had the abrupt and unpleasant thought that he was, in fact, an old man. Despite his white hair and clear signs of age, he almost never looked it quite as much as he did at the moment.

He pulled himself up straight and gave her a miserable look. “A little sunshine is probably a good idea,” he said.

Mrs. Ladybug hurried him outside and did most of the talking for him, and by the time they returned, he at least looked as if blood moved through his veins. She considered it a technical victory.

 

* * *

 

 

Two further days only served to mire Mr. Grasshopper in deeper depression, so it was with no small relief of her own that Mrs. Ladybug took a look at his cut eight days after it had happened.

“It’s healing handsomely,” she said. Mr. Grasshopper took a look at it and wrinkled his nose a little.

“As handsome as a nasty scar can be, I suppose,” he agreed reluctantly. “How much longer should I wait?”

Mrs. Ladybug smiled. “Well, of course, I wouldn’t recommend anything very complex,” she said, “but I think at this point it’s really up to you when you’d like to give the wound a little exercise.”

Mr. Grasshopper looked at her keenly. “You mean to say--”

“No Rachmaninov,” Mrs. Ladybug said firmly. “And not that awful Caprice you like showing off. But, anything else...”

Mr. Grasshopper reached out and seized her by the shoulders, pulling her close and kissing both of her cheeks. “God bless you!” he sighed, and practically ran into his living room. He hurried to his violin case, popped it open, and drew out his beloved instrument and bow, the sight of which he had been unable to bear in recent days. He tuned it with a certain trembling enthusiasm and ran both hands along its curves, tracing its points, holes, and long, slender throat, plucking its strings, before tucking it under his chin and applying his bow, running one long, experimental draw along its strings.

Mrs. Ladybug watched with a faintly amused expression as he stood tall and straight, trembling faintly from a single tone. Melodramatic old fool.

He played a rapidly uptempo version of his favorite partita, and before the strings began to cool, he launched into Carmen’s Habanera, his eyes closed and expression blissful as he moved and swayed with his music. Ignoring her injunction, he began playing the Paganini Caprice and then, inspired, Paganiniana. Mrs. Ladybug, seeing how little the wounded part of his hand was needed for it, hadn’t the heart to stop him and let him just carry on, settling herself into a seat of her own to watch and listen.

While this was going on, however, a certain Mr. Centipede was just coming upon the home of the older man. The bus stop may have been down the street, but the ginger would admit he was making himself walk too slowly- taking his time. In all honesty, he wasn’t quite in the mood to be around the place. Mr. Grasshopper was a great guy, and he felt awful that he was so down…

“But if I haveta listen to one more depressing piece, I might jus’ go off myself!”

This made the fact that he was hearing a song of a different tune blasted from the home all the more surprising.

“Huh,” Vernon mumbled, “ Maybe the old lady is forcing him to try somethin’ different. She was probably thinkin’ the same thing as me, after a week o’ misery from Hops.”

Curious, the freckled man adjusted his cap as he walked up to the house. He was just going to peek, he told himself, just to see how they were doing. Then the red-head would get straight to work. The older folks didn’t need, nor probably WANT, him interrupting their private moments. And it wasn’t really his business what was going on.

Coming upon the bay window, Centipede leaned against the red brick foundation. Feeling like a secret agent spying on his target, and rather fond of thinking of himself in a suave tux with his hair smoothed back, the short man peaked his head from around the brick, and his gaze into the living room.

Vern’s jaw nearly dropped at what he saw. Standing in the middle of the room was Theodore Grasshopper, no longer looking like the decrepit old man he had been seeing for days. No, what stood in his line of sight was a tall and overly enthusiastic musician acting like the lord just bestowed upon him the gift of sound. Which, the ginger supposed, was true in a sense. It was a touching sight to see. Good for him.

But as he watched the elder play, the man became less still. As the tune suddenly changed, though not in a displeasing manner, Mr. Grasshopper began to sway and bob along with the music. Long arms rocked the bow back and forth, increasing speed, and under the man’s whiskers he could see the most beautiful smile he had ever seen on anybody, dame or otherwise. The taller man had such a habit of suppressing himself from others, even his happiness, that while he knew the guy felt emotions…he never knew just how deep they ran. But this…

The gardener’s thoughts changed gears, as the other man twisted himself away from him. With his back to him, Vernon found himself greeted by a different sight. As the man began to play faster and faster, his hips rocked along with it. His back arched and jerked in spasms, making his coattails flick about, reminding Mr. Centipede of water rolling off someone’s body. The ginger found himself enthralled by the swaying, and how the old man could move. You could call Theodore Grasshopper many things…But creaky would not be one of them.

It took a bit for Vern to realize he had been staring at the other man’s ass. It took him even longer to realize that he was enjoying the sight. And it felt like it took a million years for his brain to make the connection of attraction. The gardener was both equally relieved and disappointed when Mr. Grasshopper’s backside disappeared, and his front made its return.

As the scene before him played on, Mr. Centipede found himself leaning more and more into view. He didn’t know when it happened, but the freckled man had been propped onto the windowsill and slouching as he made himself comfortable. He was leaning into the room, in plain sight, ogling a white haired old man.

‘Currently a SEXY white haired old man,’ Vernon heard somewhere in the back of his mind, as his brain felt the need to correct him.

Vern sat up a little straighter as the music started to wrap up. Grasshopper kept drawing these gorgeous little squeals out of the instrument, his long fingers darting over the strings, touching here and there and making the little lump of wood in his arms scream for him. His motions became more intense, his expression one of almost painful joy and concentration, eyes closed and focused on some inward thing he was busily expressing.

As the violin let out one last delighted little shriek, the musician lifted his bow from his instrument, his expression blissful. In nearly the same motion, his legs went out from under him and he sprawled, limp, on the sofa, a tangle of long legs and nice suit and hands that stroked the red stained wood of his violin.

Vern leaned in a little further, checking to see that the old man hadn’t had a heart attack and gone to meet his maker with a smile on his mouth. Seeing Mr. Grasshopper take a long, deep breath, Vern relaxed, glancing a little more around the room.

He jumped, seeing Mrs. Ladybug grinning at him. He’d been so focused on the music (and the musician) that he hadn’t even noticed she was in the room. She was looking at him like a cat with feathers in her mouth and he slowly, sheepishly raised his hat at her.

 

* * *

 

 

Theodore sat on the couch because he could not have remained upright, his knees unable to support him. Relief and joy sang in his bones, his blood stinging with rapturous adrenaline. Never. Again. He’d rather lose whole fingers, one at a time, than be parted from his music ever again.

Although he had to admit, he’d never felt such an intense musical ecstasy before. It was practically a spiritual experience.

“Feeling a bit better?” Mrs. Ladybug asked, and he could hear her cheeky smile in her voice, though his eyes were still closed.

“I don’t believe I can move,” he said dreamily. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything quite like that before. I think my brain is liquified.”

“I do believe, you incorrigible man, that you just made love to yourself in front of me.”

“Not quite,” he disagreed, rubbing his shoulders into the cushions of his couch. “But nearly.”

“Then you certainly just made love to that instrument. I declare, Mr. Grasshopper, you were shameless with that poor violin, making those saucy noises. People will start to wonder what on earth you could be up to, reaching such peaks of passion at eleven o’clock on a Thursday morning.”

He drummed his fingers on the body of his violin and opened his eyes to see his beloved instrument in his lap, the strings still warm. “Was it good for you, my love?” he asked, laughing dryly.

A snort from the window caused him to jolt upright, a hot flush rising on the back of his neck. He spied Mr. Centipede outside, looking rather sheepish, despite a filthy grin on his face. A quick glance revealed that Mrs. Ladybug was practically giggling with glee.

“I--I--” Mr. Grasshopper swallowed thickly and cleared his throat. He didn’t know how much Mr. Centipede had heard, but he prayed it was not much--and even the prospect of him having overheard was not enough to dampen the delight that still sung in his every limb and joint. “That is, good morning, Mr. Centipede. I had not thought you would be in the area so early. How might I be of some assistance to you?”

“Well hello to YOU, gramps,” Vern couldn’t keep a smile off his face. “And a good morning to you, ma’am. Here I was, thinking I was gonna be the one t’ get ya out of the dumps- and imagine me surprised when I saw ya dancing about with that fiddle of yours. Couldn’t help but watch a little.”

Mrs. Ladybug giggled.

“Hear that, Theodore, he enjoyed the show.”

“’Violin,’ the proper name is ‘violin’. Fiddles are for bluegrass and other abhorrent displays of what some people would call ‘music’.” The lanky man made himself sit up straighter, though his body protested. “However, that doesn’t really answer my query.”

While Centipede enjoyed a good teasing here and there, he was glad to have the change in topic.

“About why I’m here so early, huh? Well,” Vern paused, reaching for his back pocket, “I kinda saw something the other day that piqued my interest, n’ I was sorta hoping I can make a proposition with ya. Here, I have the flyer.”

The gardener took out the rolled up piece of paper and held it through the window; he was glad that Mrs. Ladybug took it upon herself to fetch it, rather than the clearly exhausted musician.

“Oh look, “ the woman said after giving it a quick read, “It’s a about the annual Disney Garden Competition!”

“Yeah, see, I found it tacked up on the community center’s bulletin board. I figured, hey, I do gardening. And hey, I could also use the dough. So I figured, if I entered your place into the contest…It would pretty much be easy pickin’s. Not to be tootin’ my own horn, but everybody knows you got the best place in town.”

Mr. Grasshopper took the flyer from Mrs. Ladybug with a quick smile of gratitude and cast his eye over its contents. “Ah, yes,” he murmured. “I suppose it is getting to be that time of the year, isn’t it?”

He glanced up again at Mr. Centipede. “And you truly believe the garden stands a chance?”

“‘Course I do!” Mr. Centipede replied. “Not like I spend every goddamn last second of my spare time in it, breakin’ my back and sweatin’ my blood out. Everybody knows this is the best hunk of landscape goin’.”

Mr. Grasshopper lifted his eyes briefly to the ceiling. “And that is your professional opinion, Mr. Centipede?” he asked, giving the other man a dry, amused look. “If you are certain that this is a viable proposition, then by all means, please enter. Enter us. The garden.”

Mr. Centipede grinned and leaned forward a little more. “Well, now, hold on just a second,” he said, crossing his arms on the sill. “We can’t go into this kinda thing half-cocked, know what I mean? I think we got to do some preparation first.”

Mr. Grasshopper spared him a glance. “Why don’t you come in,” he offered. “I’d rather not have this conversation through an open window.”

“Ooh, lettin’ the help have the run of the place, Hops?” Centipede grinned, and disappeared from the window.

“Is it getting warm in here?” Mrs. Ladybug asked in an undertone, coming to sit beside her friend on the sofa. “Perhaps I should leave you two to discuss your entering and your preparation and your half-to-full cockedness in private.”

Mr. Grasshopper lightly tapped her on her knee, giving her an admonishing look as Centipede strolled into the living room.

“So I’ll lay it on the line,” Vern said, throwing himself into one of the fancy armchairs and crossing his legs at the ankles. “I wanna run some pavement through the yard and stick a fountain in there, if we’re gonna do this. A lawn don’t do nobody no good except for impressing judges, so we might as well go whole hog.”

Mr. Grasshopper stopped trying to keep up with the multiplicity of double and triple negatives and just followed the first and last parts of the thought. “A pavement? A lush expanse of green is not sufficiently appealing?”

“Come on, Hops, where’s your sense of design?” Mr. Centipede asked with a rakish smile. “Somethin’ a little ritzy, why not?”

“Well,” the older gentleman thought it over, “I suppose I, of all people, can appreciate dressing things up just for the gratification of it.”

“No kidding.”

Choosing to ignore the comment, Mr. Grasshopper went on.

“All right, Mr. Centipede, let us do this. I have the utmost trust in your recommendations and your skills. Besides, I will admit now and again it’s nice to embrace change- as long as it isn’t dire. I’m sure Mr. Rabbit could use some friendly competition, as well. I hear he has won the trophy for four consecutive years, and a change of pace should do him good, too.”

“Nah, don’t worry about him. That stick in the mud only won ‘cause you didn’t even bother to enter. After seeing what I’m gonna do, plus you layin’ on the charm… The judges will be eatin’ out of your palms!”

Mr. Grasshopper laughed lightly, almost charmed despite himself. Maybe he wasn’t the one with the silver tongue after all. “Perhaps I have a small allure,” he admitted, smoothing down his mustache with two fingers. “Especially for beautiful widows,” he said, his smile spreading as Mrs. Ladybug smacked his knee. “But I shall need to have a truly magnificent final product to present.”

“I’ll get’cha there, Hops, satisfaction guarantee,” Vern said, sticking out his hand.

Mr. Grasshopper took it and shook. “Now, what shall you need from me?” he asked. Nothing was without a price.

“How about we do 300 big boys, American, right out of the gate?” Centipede asked, cutting to the chase.

Mr. Grasshopper started so suddenly his eyeglass popped away from his face. “Good God!” he exclaimed.

Centipede shrugged his shoulders. “It’s a hefty operation, Gramps,” he said, grinning shamelessly. “Need a little cement, and of course I’ll lay it, which’ll be a little somethin’ extra. And we’re gonna have to go out and fight over a fountain all over again.”

Mr. Grasshopper frowned at him. “Very well,” he said, admittedly still feeling a little blissed out due to his recent performance. He got his legs back under him at last and went to go his retrieve his checkbook. “But we do this on one condition, Mr. Centipede.”

“Oh, yeah?” Vern asked, lifting his eyebrows. “What? You’ve already got my spare time from here till I die locked down. Whatta ya want, blood?”

Mr. Grasshopper returned with his leather-bound check pad and scribbled off a few sharply pointed digits. “We shall enter this partnership and enjoy its fruits if--and only if--you hereby swear never to call me ‘Gramps’ again.”

“You’re cruel, Hops.” Vern heaved a heavy sigh and looked at the check. “All right, I’m in,” he said, taking the check. “Your Majesty.”

“Well, now,” Mr. Grasshopper said brightly. “A man could get used to that.”

 

* * *

 

 

Days went by without any conflicts or confusions. The two men had plotted out what exactly they needed to do, took measurements, and even went and ordered the supplies. There had been some aesthetic debates on the fountain, as to be expected; however, after going from artistic to campy to just plain ATROCIOUS, they agreed upon a more traditional ivory piece.

On the third day, Mr. Grasshopper was surprised to see his yard cluttered with supplies. However, he was more surprised to see his gardener already up and about, before he even had his own cup of morning tea.

“Mr. Centipede, I am honestly astonished to see you at this hour.”

The ginger turned around, smiling. He laughed as he jogged the remaining distance between them.

“Well,” Vern said with a shrug, “what can I say? I guess I just got a lil’ too excited, ya know? Been a while since I did a project like this. Could barely keep my eyes closed, let alone sleep.”

“You certainly must be excited...and I’m sure I’m enormously glad to hear it,” Mr. Grasshopper said, rather impressed. “I had not thought you would be so enthusiastic.”

“I’m a man of action, Hops.” Vern spun a wrench into the air and caught it with an easy flick of his wrist.

“And you have some experience with plumbing?” Mr. Grasshopper asked, looking uncertainly at the fountain. He was putting considerable power in the man’s hands, delivering his garden unto him with few enough restrictions in place. And although Vern had earned his trust--more or less, anyway--he could not help but be concerned.

“Sure, man--you think the community center can hire an outside guy? I’ve tightened every bolt, screw, and pipe in the place.”

“Indeed,” he said, somewhat skeptically. “Well. Shall I make you a cup of coffee, since I shall be making tea?”

“Yeah, I’d murder one.”

“Mm. And have you eaten?”

“Hops. Ya do care.”

Mr. Grasshopper rolled his eyes and went inside to make their beverages. When he returned, Vern was digging a hole for the fountain.

“Oh, yeah,” the gardener sighed, taking the mug. “That’s what I like to see. Ran out the house before I had a cup.”

“Good lord, man, do not strain yourself unto death,” Mr. Grasshopper teased.

“What can I say? I’m a charge in head first kinda guy, when it comes to projects. You shoulda been there after I rescued Jessie from the junk yard. I swear I didn’t sleep for days. Practically the walkin’ dead ‘round town.”

“I’ll take your word for it. But for now, how about you put down your things, and I’ll put something in you to keep you energized. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, after all.”

Mr. Centipede found himself grinning wider at the other man’s phrasings.

“Now that certainly sounds promising! Alright, Hops, lead the way.”

Vern wasn’t quite sure where he’d gotten the idea that Mr. Grasshopper was a foodie, but somewhere along the way, between the classical music and the ridiculously nice wardrobe, he’d pretty much absorbed the message that the guy liked the finer things in life.

So when he offered to ‘put something in’ Vern, he figured that at least it would be something on the higher end of things.

He had not been expecting cold cereal. He wouldn’t turn his nose up at it, hell no--but he was still surprised.

“So, you’re a vegetarian, yeah?” Vern asked. Looking around, he could see onions, a green pepper, salt and black pepper--if he’d had access to things, he could’ve made a damn good real breakfast.

“Oh, yes,” Mr. Grasshopper paused. “These...why, I suppose it must be fifty years.”

“So what do you even eat?” Vern asked. His idea of hell was a world without steak.

“As you may guess, vegetables,” Mr. Grasshopper said, lifting an eyebrow at him. “Grains, fruit, a small amount of dairy. I don’t cook, myself, but there’s an enormous amount of variety one can enjoy in an herbivorous diet.”

“Uh huh,” Vern said, taking a slug of the coffee. At least the guy knew his way around some java--it was piping hot and black as the Ace of Spades--just right. “So, what? Toast, tofu, fruit? No wonder you’re so skinny. We oughta get some meat in you.”

Mr. Grasshopper had turned to the refrigerator and nearly dropped the milk. “Thank you for your concern,” he said tightly. “But I enjoy my eating habits perfectly well.”

“Sure, you say that now,” Vern said with a sleazy smile. “But I bet, deep down, sometimes you just really want a sausage.”

The doorbell rang and Mr. Grasshopper practically bolted, leaving the cereal in two bowls, sans milk. “Pardon me. I really ought to answer that. Isn’t it astonishing, how everyone is up and about so early this morning? Just a moment. Help yourself,” he blithered, legging it.

Vern grinned at his retreating form and took a look in the fridge. If Hops had some eggs, or something with a close enough texture, he might just be able to pull a real breakfast out of this!

While the gardener was searching, the taller and much older man was busy opening the door. Mr. Grasshopper found himself taken back as he saw a resident he didn’t run into often.

“Mr. Rabbit? Pardon the reaction, but you were the last person I thought to be seeing this morning.”

It was, indeed, the fellow garden enthusiast. The fair haired man smiled widely, his bucked teeth lightly poking at his bottom lip. In Rabbit’s hands was a large glaringly white plate of muffins.

“Well hello, my fellow neighbor. I hope I wasn’t disturbing you.”

“Actually, we were just about to eat breakfast.”

“Then I’ve come just in time with my gift! You see, I made a batch of my special carrot muffins in order to share with my students tomorrow- something I like to do every now and again with the summer school kids. Keeps their spirits up, you know? And I realize, oh silly me, I made too much! Since I wanted to come over, and ask you a question or two anyway, I thought I’d give them to you.”

Grasshopper raised a brow at that.

“Questions?”

“Yes, I saw on the sign-up sheet that your address was entered. I was VERY curious about that. You’ve never entered before, you know, and I was wondering what brought that about. I mean,” Rabbit corrected himself, “what made you change your mind?”

Mr. Grasshopper was not particularly fond of having his chain yanked. This sort of silly, transparent behavior was somewhat annoying, and actually was quite a shame--ordinarily, he might not have minded getting to know his neighbor better.

But there was a precedent for the proper response to this kind of passive-aggressive visit, so Mr. Grasshopper threw his door open wider. “Why don’t you come in? It is much too warm a day, even this early in the morning, to remain outside for long.”

“Thank you,” Rabbit said, stepping inside and looking around with a sharp gaze. “What a lovely home.”

Mr. Grasshopper certainly thought it such, but whether this was more piffle or not he could not say. “Thank you kindly. Please, come into the kitchen--do you drink tea?”

Vern had found a few eggs and was reasonably convinced of their freshness. He was looking through the drawers for a decent kitchen knife when Hops reappeared with a visitor.

He started to see who had come along. That little sneak! Trying to get a look at the garden, eh? Well, joke’s on him--they hadn’t accomplished shit yet, so there was nothing to see.

Rabbit’s eyes darted back and forth between them, obviously looking for the connection. Vern wondered that the guy had never seen him breaking his back out on the front yard.

“Morning, Rabbit,” Vern said with a smirk. “Don’t see you around here much.”

Rabbit chuckled, shifting his weight awkwardly. “Yes, I suppose not. Well, now that I know what great gardeners you are, I hope to visit more often. Birds of a feather and such.”

“Naturally,” Mr. Grasshopper said, giving Vern a significant look over Rabbit’s shoulder. Vern winked at him quickly. “Cream and sugar, Mr. Rabbit?”

“Lovely, yes, thank you,” the interloper said, setting the plate of muffins on the counter.

Vern zeroed in on the plate. “...nice,” he said.

“Are you hungry?” Rabbit asked with a somewhat sly expression.

Mr. Grasshopper rolled his eyes discreetly, hearing Vernon already chewing on one of the muffins. He placed a cup of tea in front of Rabbit and smiled slightly. “There you are. I hope you will not mind if we eat in your presence? I regret to say that I have only cold cereal to offer.”

“Oh, never mind me, tea shall be lovely,” Rabbit said. “Please, have a muffin.”

“Certainly,” Mr. Grasshopper said, “thank you.” He retrieved a pair of dessert plates from his cabinets and gave one to Vernon, who was finishing his first muffin, anyway.

Mr. Grasshopper picked apart the muffin--still warm, naturally. He put a bite into his mouth, and smiled. It was honestly quite delicious. “They are exceptional,” he said, “thank you.”

He put the plate down and did not take another bite.

Rabbit clearly noticed this, though his mouth flicked in a small grin. “So, gentlemen,” he said, attempting to see out of one of the back windows, “one household to another. What has caused you to wish to include your garden in the contest?”

Mr. Centipede talked while still chewing- he might be a sneak, but he sure did make a damn good muffin! “Well, that was my idea actually. Just though ol’ Hops here deserved to win, is all. No offense to you, but I happen to think he has the best garden around. And with what we got cookin’, should give you a run for your money.”

“What DO you plan on doing?”

The red-headed man laughed. “Now now, that would be ruinin’ the surprise. Where’s the fun in that?”

Rabbit laughed unconvincingly. “Oh, yes, of course, silly me. Then it must be quite the project.”

“I think it will be refreshing for everyone,” Mr. Grasshopper said mildly.

He said no more, listening to the silence grow in the room.

“So,” Rabbit said at last. “Mr. Grasshopper, am I to understand that you are the gardener, if yours is the...best garden?”

“Good heavens, no,” he replied. “My gardening days are far behind me. That is the exclusive purview of Mr. Centipede.”

Rabbit’s eyebrows lifted. “Oh, I see. Mr. Centipede, you are a professional? How remarkable. I only hope...well, it’s surely nothing.”

“Yeah, what’s the matter?” Vern asked, swallowing thickly.

“Well, I had been under the impression that the contest was suitable for amateurs only.”

“While I ain’t no amateur, I’m also not really professional either. I mean, before working for the old man I only mowed the grass and planted a flower here or there, down at the community center. I’m more of a fixin’ pipes and sweeping floors kinda guy. “ The ginger threw a genuine smile over at the man next to him. “But Hops here was nice enough to give me a chance, n’ apparently I had a bit o’ a flair for it. Kinda just learning things as I go along.”

Mr. Grasshopper smiled as well, surprised by the kindness of the sentiment. “I daresay you have much more ambitious designs than I do. And in the past they have been a veritable blessing in the lives of my plants.”

“You don’t say,” Rabbit interjected. Mr. Grasshopper turned his head to face his guest a little too quickly and winced as he gave himself a crick. “Do you suppose you could show me an example?”

Mr. Grasshopper decided that this had gone on far too long. Time to get things sorted. “Now, my dear Mr. Rabbit,” he said, smiling and making a rather sweeping gesture towards him. “You know of course that such a proposition must needs be terribly unsporting! I should blush in my entirety if I had to see the disdain that our small patch of earth must bring to your eyes.”

Rabbit’s eyebrows furrowed even as he attempted a smile. “Well, I’m sure I wouldn’t--”

“Oh, I know you would do your best to spare our feelings,” Mr. Grasshopper continued. He sidled up to Rabbit and began to move towards the hall, encouraging the other man with mere body language to come towards him. “But I would rather not subject you to it in its preliminary stages. A man of your horticultural expertise should be privy to the final product--which I daresay will take much time to accomplish. Correct, Mr. Centipede?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Well, I really think--”

“Precisely. And what is far more substantial and important than any garden is what you were saying previously about summer school,” Mr. Grasshopper said, walking abreast with him, his hand companionably on the smaller man’s shoulder. “I am sure that we oughtn’t keep you when the youth are awaiting you.”

“On the contrary, that doesn’t start until tomorr--”

They were very suddenly at Mr. Grasshopper’s front door. The musician flicked one of his business cards from the holder on the foyer table and pressed it into Rabbit’s hand with a fondly earnest gesture. “We cannot thank you enough for your kindness this morning--the muffins are exceptional and it is so extremely refreshing to receive such a generous and open-hearted expression of welcome during our first faltering steps in gardening.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s my pleasure, but--”

“And your very neighborly conduct gives us great encouragement to proceed,” Mr. Grasshopper continued, “which we shall do to the very utmost of our abilities, in an effort to earn the gesture of esteem you have given us.”

Rabbit blinked rapidly. “Well. I. Thank you, I think, and I’m happy to do it, but--”

“I’m sorry that I must say good morning to you now, Mr. Rabbit, but I am afraid I must attend to a few matters pertaining to the somewhat delicate business of a household’s morning routine,” Mr. Grasshopper said, extending his hand. “But please do consider yourself welcome at any time--I should be best pleased to have another cup of tea with you, at your convenience. Perhaps I could call on you in the week?”

“Oh! That’s certainly not necessary!” Rabbit cried, shaking his head and stepping toward the door. “I’ll--I thank you, but I shall be happy to wait on you.”

“So kind,” Mr. Grasshopper said, smiling sweetly. “Good morning, Mr. Rabbit, thank you for taking the time to stop by.”

“Yes,” Rabbit said, a little out of his depth.

Mr. Grasshopper closed the door tightly and leaned against it, sighing. Good God. Some people had to be dragged out kicking and screaming, didn’t they?

Centipede had been following them, his grin growing more and more by the second. By the time Rabbit had been thrown out the house, and the other man had slumped against the door, the gardener was full out laughing.

“Oh, oh man,” Vern uttered in between his fit of mirth, “I think…I think that was the sassiest thing you ever did, old man!”

Mr. Grasshopper stiffened up.

“Well, I apologize for my own rudeness in how I handled the situation. But I just couldn’t stand-“

“No,” Centipede interrupted, “Stop. I didn’t mean that as an insult. I was impressed! The guy was being an ass, and you actually manned up n’ gave him the boot. Almost feel bad for the guy. You just got in his face and danced around him so fast he didn’t know what to ev’n do wit himself!”

Mr. Grasshopper straightened his tie and tugged on the hem of his coat, smoothing his clothing. “Yes, well. One pleasant consequence of the death of the art of diplomacy is that few enough people know how to respond to such an onslaught.”

Vern grinned, picking up one of Mr. Grasshopper’s business cards from the foyer table and taking a look at it. “Pretty sure you just told him in six different ways to go fuck himself, Hops. Ain’t nothing diplomatic about that.”

The older man smiled thinly, passing Mr. Centipede in the hall. “But that is the art of diplomacy itself, Mr. Centipede,” he replied. “Many and various people throughout time producing an elaborate performance, the contents of which is generally, as you say, ‘go fuck yourself.’”

Vern picked his head up at the unexpected swear and followed Mr. Grasshopper down the hall. “Y’know, there was some point at which I’d’a sworn on a Bible that you were didn’t know what a cuss was. I’d’a said that you’d burst into flames before ya let a four letter word out of your mouth.”

“Still waters run deep, Mr. Centipede,” Mr. Grasshopper said with a sideways glance at his gardener. “I suppose you have had your fill of breakfast?”

“Well,” Vernon looked back into the kitchen, eyeing the white plate of quick-bread. “I’m done for the most part.” The gardener turned around and started heading towards the front door; however, he quickly jot back into the kitchen and picked up the plate of remaining muffins. “But, ya know, it seems like such a waste to NOT finish these off. Consider it more like learnin’ about the enemy.”

Before the older man could make any witty remarks, the freckled man stunned him by picking up his own unfinished treat and popping it into his mouth. Giving a wink, with cake between his teeth, he turned his back on the lankier gentleman and retreated.

Theodore Grasshopper found it took a moment to remove the fierce blush off his face; and even longer still to stop thinking about his gardener’s lips on other things belonging to him. Things that happen to be a part of his person, and had rarely had the pleasure of being introduced.

It took till the end of noon for both his thoughts to cease, and for the room to glisten. Distractions were good, after all. Yet, even then, the olive-toned man couldn’t help but think only his kitchen was truly clean.

 


	4. The Centipede that Came to Dinner

Everything had been going so smoothly. The first day had been marking where the fountain would be, and then clearing away the topsoil and grass. By the end of the evening, the gardener was completely sweaty and looked like he had rolled around in dirt for hours. Which, Vernon mused to himself, was pretty much the case. Day two consisted of his carpentry skills, and creating a framework for the base of the fountain, and figuring out where he was going to lay the pipework and electrical cables. (The two men had agreed it was in the best interest to have the fountain set to a timer. Mr. Grasshopper was a stickler for noise pollution and the water bill, and Centipede just thought there was something exciting about seeing the piece spring to life!) And so the days carried on like this, growing warmer and sunnier. 

“If the heat rose any higher,” Mrs. Ladybug joked, “Vernon would have to get rid of his pants, as well as his top!”

One could imagine everyone’s disappointment when it began to rain the very next morning. Mr. Grasshopper managed to meet Mrs. Ladybug at the door and help her out of her slicker.

“Ugh! It’s ghastly out there!” Mrs. Ladybug said, shivering a little as he hung the plastic coat up to dry. “It’s a good day for ducks, but I daresay no one else will be out and about.”

Mr. Grasshopper popped his head out of doors to get a look at the heavy rain pouring down. “Blast,” he murmured. “I suppose installation will have to wait. We oughtn’t have stopped last night...I only hope the tarp can stand up to this kind of weather.”

“We, dearie? I didn’t realize that you were part of the physical labor force,” Mrs. Ladybug said, wandering into the kitchen and pouring a cup of tea. “You aren’t doing anything dangerous, are you?”

“No, no, not at all. The fountain is sufficiently heavy that Mr. Centipede requires some assistance to move it and between the two of us we have the matter in hand.”

“Very good, then. But do have a care for your back, my dear, I dread the prospect of you hurting yourself.”

Mr. Grasshopper smiled at her concern. “Thank you, dear.”

Mrs. Ladybug sighed loudly. “What a slow and dreary day we shall have,” she said. “No sunshine, which means my gentleman will not visit me for long, and yours certainly will not unless he wants to be washed away. And I had grown so attached to the cheerful sight of his torso of an afternoon.”

Mr. Grasshopper did not disagree. “I suppose we all have our crosses to bear,” he said, smiling a little.

“Honestly, Mr. Grasshopper. When will you do something about him? It’s getting nonsensical, dear. A man doesn’t sweat and strain and labor in your garden, shirtless and flexing, the way he does unless he wants you to do something about it. And you are so transparently interested--you might as well give it a try.”

His lips twitched upward, even as he shook his head. “You make it sound so appallingly sordid, Buggy,” he murmured. “Mr. Centipede is exercising his unusual sense of humor, and you and I should consider ourselves lucky that we get to enjoy it as much as he does. What concerns Mr. Centipede is professional pride and prize money--and that fact that I am easy to touch for a dollar when it comes to my garden.”

“You could stand to make yourself a bit more easily touchable, generally, my love. I thought you were going to start frying in your suit yesterday, I really did. Even Miss Spider is dressing more lightly in this weather. She wore a charcoal grey yesterday instead of black.”

“Enlightening,” Mr. Grasshopper said, unable to resist.

“Oh, you silly creature. Honestly, now, about Vernon--”

“Perhaps I shall expose my wrists the next time he works in my garden and see if it turns his head,” Mr. Grasshopper chuckled. “Leave it alone, Buggy. I daresay he gives such matters much less thought than I do, and far and away less than you do.”

“You know, Theodore, I REALLY don’t think that’s the case at all. In fact, I have a hunch that all three of us are thinking exactly along the same lines.”

Mr. Grasshopper merely rolled his eyes, as he smiled. The rest of the morning consisted of them chatting amongst themselves in the lanky companion’s living room. That sat, turned to each other, talking on the sofa. Every so often Mrs. Ladybug would find herself needing something to nibble on, and would come and go from the room. Theodore didn’t think much of it, though, used to the woman’s ways. It was during one of those times, later in the afternoon, that Mr. Grasshopper found his doorbell chime. The white haired man was not expecting visitors, so was confused by this.

“I’ll get it. Though, I confess I haven’t the faintest idea who it could be.”

“Maybe it’s that Rabbit fellow, come to try and seduce you into telling your secrets again.”

“Then he’ll be sadly disappointed when I swiftly turn him out again. I find that he isn’t my type in the slightest.”

The man found himself chuckling as he answered the door.

“Uncle Theodore!”

“My word, what a pleasant surprise!”

On the other end was the beloved young James, soaking wet, despite his adorable yellow raincoat. Besides him was the more fashionable Mrs. Spider, holding her sleek black umbrella firmly in her hands. The gentleman reached out for it, so the beautiful young mother could enter his home.

“Please, let me help you two. Miss Spider, you’re looking lovely despite this gloomy weather.” He paused to shake off the umbrella, before bringing it inside the doorway. “And my boy, if you would, please remove your boots. Don’t want to get water all about the place. “

James slid out of his raincoat and pulled his black and white striped galoshes off, leaving them out on the porch, under the eaves.

“Oh, James!” Mrs. Ladybug cried, delighted. She hurried down the hall to meet them. “Oh, bless my soul, were we supposed to meet today? I would’ve sworn it was tomorrow!”

“Today,” Miss Spider said simply, a wry smile on her lips. Mr. Grasshopper held her coat and she shrugged out of it with a little nod of gratitude. “I knew I should have phoned ahead. But once James is in his boots, nothing can hold him back.”

James was getting hugged to within an inch of his life and could not respond. Mr. Grasshopper waved Miss Spider into the living room and, despite his personal distaste for smoking, lit her cigarette as she tucked herself into the ledge of the bay window. She smiled her gratitude and happily took the cup of tea Mrs. Ladybug presented her with.

James had a power for livening up a room. Although the conversation was perfectly comfortable as it had been, his presence animated Mrs. Ladybug, who was always curious to hear what was happening in his life. The young boy described his days at summer camp and the new friends he was making in minute detail, sitting between Mrs. Ladybug and Mr. Grasshopper on the sofa and being fed slightly too many biscuits.

Miss Spider watched contentedly as her son chatted nonstop with the older couple for nearly an hour, obviously happy to be with them. When James learned that Mrs. Ladybug had not yet heard his attempt at Ode to Joy on violin, the boy eagerly asked to be able to perform it. She was perfectly willing to listen, so James fetched one of Mr. Grasshopper’s violins and the old man tuned it, taking a spot at the piano to help the boy keep tempo and remember his notes. The boy stood up as tall and as straight as he could and lodged the violin firmly under his chin.

Listening to her son playing a slow and rather faltering, but earnest, Ode to Joy, Miss Spider smiled. She loved watching James interacting with people--he was like no other little boy she had ever met. Tenebre had never been in a position to long for a family, though she loved hers dearly, and to see these moments and these people through James’ eyes was powerfully enlightening. She blew out a thin stream of smoke, cracking open one of the window panes the exact necessary angle to catch and sweep away her smoke.

Seeing motion outside besides the rain, Tenebre peering through the window panes, attempting to see who would be abroad on a night as wicked as this.

It was a short man walking quickly, his shoulders hunched, presenting his sodden shirt back to the elements. Miss Spider smiled slightly, appreciating the gloomy image he made even as he marched up the sidewalk.

It was with some astonishment that she realized that he was coming up Mr. Grasshopper’s steps, and with outright amazement that she recognized him as Mr. Centipede.

‘I do believe we have another member of our family, ‘ Miss Spider stopped herself, mid thought, not sure if that was the word she wanted to use. She decided to correct herself, as she voiced it to the homeowner. “I believe you have another visitor approaching.”

Before Mr. Grasshopper could even question what the young woman was talking about, the old gentlemen heard his doorbell go off again. Today was just a social visit after another, wasn’t it? He was about to excuse himself from the piano, when Mrs. Ladybug beat him to it.

“Now, you stay there, love. I’ll be getting this one. You and little James need to finish your piece, after all.”

After opening the door, she let out a happy squeal.

“Mr. Centipede!”

“Oh, er, hey there, ma’am.” Ladybug saw a mild look of disappoint on the younger man’s face. She couldn’t help but wonder if he hopped someone else would open the door. “I ain’t interrupting anything, am I?”

“Oh no! In fact, I’m sure everyone would be delighted to see you. Come in, dearie, though mind your drippings. We want to keep the rain OUT of Mr. Grasshopper’s abode.”

“Uh, yeah,” he said, taking off his hat and shaking off a little rain with a flick of his wrist. “Ship’s kinda sailed on that one.”

“I’m afraid so,” Mrs. Ladybug said, smiling at his drenched clothing. “Let me get you something to dry off.” She hurried up the steps, disappearing into the upper floor of the house for an instant and coming back with a warm, dry towel. “You poor dear, wherever is your umbrella?”

“Eh, I just got a little cheap POS one,” he shrugged, taking the towel and running it over his face. “Wasn’t worth even dragging it out in this mess. Figured I’d save myself the strain.”

“Well, dearie, if you want to change into something dry, I’m sure Mr. Grasshopper can lend you something,” Mrs. Ladybug said sweetly.

“Heh,” Centipede chuckled. “I don’t think Stretch and I are about the same shape,” he said, as they lingered in the living room doorway, looking in.

James was drawing out the last few notes of the song as Mr. Grasshopper carefully resisted the urge to add any sort of musical filigree to his rather Spartan accompaniment. The little boy had his brow furrowed in concentration, his fingers carefully pressing on the strings of the violin to produce the right sound. Under the watchful eye of his mother, he strove to make the right sounds at the right moments, bobbing just a little in a way that unintentionally mimicked Mr. Grasshopper’s own playing style.

Mr. Grasshopper, by comparison, was perfectly relaxed, despite his ramrod-straight back. He needed only one hand to play along with James, but he kept both on the keys, lest he seem to be disrespectful of the boy’s effort. He smiled slightly, keeping an eye on James as the boy scraped the boy back and forth.

James finished and the listeners immediately began clapping, Mrs. Ladybug’s rapid and effusive, Miss Spider’s slow and pleased. James bowed, grinning, and even gestured towards Mr. Grasshopper, who chuckled softly and bowed from his seat.

“Tres magnifique, James,” Miss Spider said, smiling brightly. “Very impressive.”

“Not bad, kid,” Mr. Centipede said, mouth curved in a crooked smile. “Guess you got the music in you, huh?”

Mr. Grasshopper rose from the piano bench and nodded at his new guest. “Mr. Centipede, good afternoon. I confess I’m surprised to see you here.”

“Ah, yeah,” Centipede said, rubbing the back of his damp neck. “Y’know, I was in the neighborhood, thought I’d check and make sure nothing got washed away.”

“Everything has been reasonably stable, I believe,” Mr. Grasshopper said. “I have been trying to keep an eye on the situation outside.”

“Uh, yeah,” Vern said. “Great.”

“You are collaborating on something?” Miss Spider asked, her eyebrows lifted in a slight gesture of surprise.

“Just a little something. Entered into that garden contest they throw every year. Just because.”

“Mr. Centipede has the belief that we will be taking first place.”

That seemed to be enough to snap the wet freckled man out of his awkward funk he was having. He grinned widely. “You BET I think we’re gonna win! The yard is coming along great! We’ll kick that bucked tooth pansies a- I mean, we’ll take the trophy this year for sure!”

“And the prize money, I’m sure you’re forgetting.”

Vernon’s expression turned sheepish.

“Well, that’s a part of it. That goes without sayin’. But after running into your neighbor, I kinda want to make you a lil’ trophy box so you can shove it ‘n his face every time you invite him ov’r for one of your tea parties.”

“Charming,” Miss Spider found herself smirking despite herself.

The lanky man had removed his eye piece, giving it a good clean. It was also an excuse to hide his own amused expression. By the time he was finished, his facial features were blank. No reason to encourage the redhead, after all.

“Yes, be that as it may, I’m afraid it means you made it all this way for nothing. I’m afraid you wasted time you could have been using enjoying your day off.”

“Well, I don’t really have much to do. When it rains like this, my apartment loses its tv reception. And this is kinda my only project I got going on…” Vernon found himself looking away and fidgeting with the towel in his hands, even though his hair had long been dried. “ But, ya know, while I’m here already…Is there anything I can do around the place? Leaky faucets? Squeaky door hinges?”

Mr. Grasshopper had the sudden thought that he did, in fact, need something nailed. He had much too much company for that kind of thought, so he wracked his brains for any trouble he had in the house. Nothing came to mind. “I’m afraid--”

From beside the fireplace, the grandfather clock began to chime the hour. The house echoed with five long rings and Mrs. Ladybug placed her hands on her chest.

“Goodness gracious! Can it be so late so soon? Well, you must certainly stay for dinner, Mr. Centipede--Miss Spider and James were going to stay, weren’t you, my dears, and we would just love to have you join us.”

“Yeah?” Mr. Centipede asked. “Well, I figure I can make myself pretty useful,” he said. “I know my way around a skillet!”

“Excellent,” Mrs. Ladybug said, clasping her hands together. “Let me see now...James, I think it’s about time you learned to cook a good meal, so you shall be my assistant. Miss Spider, perhaps you can select something for the adults to drink. Mr. Centipede, I should like you to prove your ability...after we get you into some dry clothes, of course, you’re still quite damp, dear.”

“And I, my love?” Mr. Grasshopper asked, as James and Miss Spider trooped into the kitchen.

“A little music, if you don’t mind, my dearest, to aid the digestion,” Mrs. Ladybug said, tying an apron around herself and around James.

“Truly? Not even table setting?”

“I can do that!” James said. “I’d like to hear you play, anyway.”

Mr. Grasshopper could not help but smile, placing a hand on his chest. “I’m deeply flattered,” he said, smiling slightly. “If my audience needs me...”

“Your audience could use a dry shirt, dear,” Mrs. Ladybug said, starting a pot of water. “At least one of them.”

Mr. Grasshopper turned to Vern and gave him a quick, examining look. He recalled his memory of Vern’s shape and size from his multiple exposures to the sight and frowned. “Well...I believe I have something loose enough that the sleeves can be rolled up,” he said. “Excuse me.” He disappeared up the steps.

Miss Spider pressed a Manhattan cocktail into Vern’s hand and clinked her own drink against it. “Tell me, now, Mr. Centipede,” she murmured, “what would bring you out in such gloomy weather?”

The freckled gardener took a sip of his drink, before answering the woman in a quiet voice.

“Pretty much like I said. There was nothing else to do…And I figured since my plans had been canceled, I would come over to keep the old man company anyway. Apparently you guys beat me to the punch.”

“James is always excited to see them. Who am I to refuse his wishes?”

“’Motherly’ looks good on ya.”

“Hush, Vern, you’re making yourself look like a fool.”

Their playful banter was interrupted by Theodore Grasshopper re-entering the room. He carefully gripped the yellow dress-shirt between his nimble fingers. He stretched out his arms, handing the top over with a bit of a flourish.

“Hopefully this will suffice? I’m afraid I don’t keep too many casual outfits among my collection of shirts and ties. However, it is cotton and should be loose enough so that it won’t cause discomfort.”

“Naw, Hops. This’ll do fine. And I’m sure I can even make this look good.” Grasshopper had no doubt about that. “Here, let me go and switch ‘em out. Gonna hang my wet top in your bathroom, kay?”

“Yes, please do. With a bit of luck it will be dry by the time we have completed with our meal.”

Mr. Centipede took himself off to change his clothes and left Mr. Grasshopper and Miss Spider alone. She gave him a glass and a slight smile.

“Perhaps you will spoil me, Mr. Grasshopper, and play something French,” she said quietly.

“It would be a pleasure to oblige you,” Mr. Grasshopper said, somewhat surprised to have a request. “Would Saint-Saens suit?”

“Perfection,” Miss Spider said.

“Where is that music, Mr. Grasshopper? You are not keeping up your end of dinner!” Mrs. Ladybug cried. The owner of the house threw up his hands and went to his violin, smiling.

Centipede emerged buttoning the shirt. He wasn’t used to shirts like this, not just because of Mr. Grasshopper’s unusual size, though that was part of it. He felt like God would come down from on high and strike him dead if he wrinkled it, but he had to roll it up to get it over his forearms, where it had to belong.

He grabbed his drink and sidled into the kitchen, determined to get the jump on things. Mr. Grasshopper was tuning his violin and, with the memory of how Hops looked when he played fresh enough in Vern’s mind to make him cough, he figured it would be best to get his hands busy with something.

“All right,” he said to Mrs. Ladybug, as he took a slug of the drink and waggled his eyebrows. “What’s cooking?”

“Boiling, dearie. And that would be the water for the pasta. I figured we’d have spaghetti with a homemade marinara sauce.”

“Eh, actually,” Centipede paused, wondering if he should go on with his suggestion. “I know you guys ain’t meat eaters, but that sounds a little on the bland side. If ya don’t mind, ma’am, I’d like to spice things up a bit. Consider it my treat.”

“Oh?” The older woman looked a little surprised, but not hurt. “What do you suggest?”

“Keep the pasta. Pasta is good, it’ll fill everybody up. But nix the sauce. I’ve been reading up on vegetarian meals lately-“

Mrs. Ladybug giggled.

“HAVE you now?”

“Uh, yeah. Just because. But as I was sayin’, I saw one way to make chili that uses nothin’ but garden trimmings and spices. Thought we’d just slap that on top of the noodles.”

“Oh my, is that a thing people do?”

“It’s a Cincinnati trick I picked up in my travels. Tried it once, and can’t seem to touch a bowl of stuff without ‘em now.”

“Well,” The older woman hesitated, but soon her frown turned to a smile. “All right, dear, it sounds interesting. And I’m sure Mr. Grasshopper would appreciate trying anything you give him.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Vernon said with a lewd smirk of his own. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I gotta dish to prepare.”

“Well, you’ve got two willing assistants,” Mrs. Ladybug said, nodding towards James, who was coming in from the dining room, having set the table.

“Yeah? All right. Come on, kid,” Vern said to James. “Man oughta know how to cook!”

Music burst from the living room as peppers, beans, spice, and tomatoes began to bubble in a large skillet. James was carefully, slowly chopping garlic under Mrs. Ladybug’s watchful eye and Miss Spider was putting pasta into the water. Vern, against his better judgment, looked up from scrubbing the cutting board in the sink to get an eyeful of the old man.

He was definitely at it again. He started out standing straight and tall and would almost immediately get physical. Vern would’ve thought he did it on purpose, if he didn’t know that Hops was so wrapped up in his own sound that he couldn’t see straight. How the hell he got away with it was a total mystery--a man shouldn’t be moving like that for a fogey old piece of music.

Vern watched the jerk of his hips for a moment more before he turned to peer over James’ shoulder at the proceedings. “Not bad, boy, looks pretty good. You sure you never cooked before?”

“Not much,” James said.

“He makes a very good grilled cheese sandwich,” Miss Spider intoned. Her son grinned brightly.

“Aw, Angel-face, who knew you were so sentimental?” Vern teased. “Here I thought you was all gloom and doom all the time.” He gave James a bottle of hot sauce. “Next step, kid: hit it with enough shots of this to make smoke come out your ears.”

“I express affection when it’s appropriate,” Miss Spider replied with a haughty little sniff and a sly smile on her lips.

“That you do,” Centipede confirmed with a grin.

“Mongrel,” Miss Spider murmured.

“Woof, baby,” Vern replied quietly, winking at her.

James interrupted their playful fighting.

“Is this enough?”

“Poifect. Now how about you help me add them peppers and onions into the mix.”

And so the cooking went on, every so often the gardener turned chef would sneak a few looks at the musician when he thought he could get away with it. Though, Vern would admit he was frustrated every time he had to look away. Not only did he not want to ruin the meal, he didn’t want to get himself-or the kid- burned. Some sacrifices had to be made.

In no time at all, the meal was finished. The sunburnt man grinned down at his creation, especially enjoying the color of the carrots and peppers mixed about the earthy hues of the beans. With a cranberry almond salad and garlic bread for sides, dinner looked and SMELLED delicious.

Mr. Centipede however, found himself lamenting over the fact that a completed meal meant the older man was going to have to stop with his provocative swinging of his hips and backside.

“We’ll never catch him now,” Mrs. Ladybug said with a smile. “He’s getting to the end of things but he’ll never stop mid way through. Very concerned about good follow-through,” she said to Vern with an innocent smile.

Vern snickered quietly and doled out a little of the chili on top of a plate of noodles held by Miss Spider. “Any suggestions to catch his eye? I figure he’ll go on until he drops if we let him.”

“Often literally,” Mrs. Ladybug said. “I’m sure one of his ancestors was fiddling while Rome burnt.”

Mr. Grasshopper stepped to turn the front of his body back towards the kitchen and happened to glance in their direction. Mrs. Ladybug waved at him and he nodded, wrapping up the end of the piece just as the last plate hit the table.

Mr. Grasshopper put the violin down and walked into the kitchen, rubbing his hands and stretching his fingers. “My goodness,” he said, looking into the pots. “I thought something smelled unusual. What is it?”

“A three-way,” James said. “The chili is quite good!”

“Chili,” Mr. Grasshopper said, astonished. “On pasta?”

“Yes!”

“How...extremely American,” he said.

Vern nudged him in the side, following Mrs. Ladybug into the dining room. Shit, were those really cloth napkins? These people were insane. “Don’t knock it till you try it, Hops.”

“I suppose that’s fair,” the older gentleman said, taking his place at the head of the table and draping his napkin across his lap.

The gardener was beginning to go to the other edge of the table, when he suddenly was steered away by young James.

“Oh, Mr. Centipede, please sit here! If you don’t mind, I would like to sit between you and mother.”

Vernon noticed the placement, and realized that would get him sitting next to the older man. Laughing, the ginger gave in and agreed. After pulling out the seat for Miss Spider, he went and plopped himself next to his favorite kid and his favorite boss.

Mr. Grasshopper said nothing; however, he was pleased to get a quick sideways glance at the freckled man next to him. The home owner told himself it was to ensure his yellow garment hadn’t been soiled from the meal preparations; though, even he could tell that was a cover-up for his lecherous gandering. The white haired fox cleared his throat to dispose of his absorptions.

The lanky man was then presented with his meal. Mrs. Ladybug went around and made sure everyone had healthy helpings of the pasta and salad. Though, Mr. Grasshopper was quick to note that both he and the boy were given some of the biggest proportions.

“Eat up dears, “ the old woman said with her usual cheer, “Let us sample Mr. Centipede’s handiwork!”

Mr. Grasshopper twisted pasta around his fork, watching as the others more quickly began to eat. He was not entirely sure of this meal but despite his uncertainty he didn’t want to offend. Going slowly was the only option--he was a master of getting food to disappear without eating it. Mrs. Ladybug was perpetually trying to overfeed him and she never believed that he was simply full.

“Oh, this is quite good,” Mrs. Ladybug said.

“Yeah!” James said. “I didn’t know you could cook this.”

“You can cook anything, kid,” Vern said. “Just gotta convince ‘em you know what you’re doing.”

Mr. Grasshopper did not find this encouraging, but Miss Spider was smiling and would never do such a thing from pure politeness. He glanced at the smiles and took a bite.

Vern had already had several bites and was preening a little over Mrs. Ladybug’s little yummy noises. He glanced over at Hops just in time to see him take his first bite. The old man lowered the fork, his eyes wide. He sat up straight and swallowed, touching his napkin to his lips.

Determined not to be nervous, Vern took another big bite and chewed, lifting his eyebrows challengingly.

“This is very good,” Mr. Grasshopper said. “Thank you for making it.”

“Yeah,” Vern said.

Mrs. Ladybug looked at Mr. Grasshopper warily.

Mr. Grasshopper took a much bigger bite.

Mrs. Ladybug beamed across the table at Vern, transcendentally delighted by Mr. Grasshopper’s effusive praise. While they all ate, the chef of the evening couldn’t help but constantly steal glances at the older man, just to make sure it wasn’t him not trying to offend.

It was only when Theodore Grasshopper asked for a second helping did Vernon Centipede smile and consider the evening a success.

 


	5. Too Close to the Sun

“Hmm...I can’t decide if I should get the larger bag or not.”

Vernon Centipede was not in the mood for shopping. There were many other places he would rather be, and one of them was not Lowe’s. In fact, while it may have involved the very supplies he was out buying, he honestly wanted to be in the yard of a certain old man whom he knew would be playing his music at that very moment.

Instead, the gardener was stuck, out and about, trying to decide if it was even worth buying the larger bag of cement.

“Maybe I can be of assistance?”

The redhead nearly jumped as he whipped his head to the side. He found himself glaring as he realized who had disturbed him.

“Rabbit.”

“Mr. Centipede,” Rabbit said with a tight smile. “How good to see you. I couldn’t help but overhear.”

Vern gritted his teeth, wishing he could smoke in here. Just the sight of the guy, with his stupid perfect hair and his dopey toothy smiles made Vern’s jaw hurt. “Yeah, bet you couldn’t.”

“I have very good hearing,” Rabbit said, coming closer and looking down at the bags of cement. “Oh, how interesting. Very big plans, I see.”

Vern hooked his thumbs into his belt loops and pulled himself up to his full height. “Some might say so,” he grunted.

“Well, of course some might,” Rabbit murmured in understanding tones. “But as an amateur, I’m sure your plans must be much smaller than most serious gardeners. I’d take the small bag if I were you.”

Vern ground his teeth together a little and grabbed the bigger bag.

“Hmm, rebellious,” Rabbit said. “That must make for some unusual planning choices, when and if you set your mind to it. The landscaping must be...eclectic. I would’ve thought Mr. Grasshopper too traditional a man to support a hodge-podge backyard.”

“Funny how I always see you outta your precious garden,” Vern said. “Whassa matter? Lost cause?”

“Why bother perfection?” Rabbit said with a slight sneer. “I don’t personally see the need to introduce a big bag’s worth of dead stone into my garden, but it does take all sorts. Perhaps you’ll simply pave it and give us something whimsically named ‘The Urban Jungle’? Very artistic.”

If Mr. Grasshopper had been here, he would’ve steered the conversation off, or at least told Vern to keep his temper. Lucky for Vern that he wasn’t there.

“Listen, mac, I dunno what you think you’re doing in the gardening section but I’m pretty sure you’re lost. If you’re looking for a new and bigger pole to replace the one you got lodged up your ass, that’s Aisle 6.”

The fair haired man’s eyes widen in surprise, before turning to a glare. He began to wag his finger in the redhead’s freckled face.

“Now SEE here, Centipede, I will NOT be spoken to like this. Your RUDENESS, if anything, just proves to me how unprepared you are for the competition. The judges will be grading YOU just as much as your garden.”

“Bring it! I can be real charismatic when need be. I just have a low bullshit meter, and you’re reekin’ of fertilizer.”

“I’m sure that isn’t MY fragrance you’re huffing.” Rabbit practically transformed in front of the gruffer man’s eyes. He straightened himself up, quickly running his hand through his sleek hair. The pale man smirked. “But, you’re right, I really should be going. I came to pick up a few things before getting back to my prize winning tomatoes. And I’m sure you’ll need all the time and preparations to get ready. Ta-ta.”

Before the shorter man could get a word in, the other gardener had turned and walked away. Vernon could feel himself turning a violent red hue from his fury. The rest of his shopping trip was a blur of rage and mumblings under his breath, as he checked out and stomped to his car.

Even Jessie’s seductive purr wasn’t enough to distract him from his temper, as he started up the engine. Before leaving the parking lot, he pulled out a cigar and lit up. Vernon deserved it after that confrontation after all.

“Makes a guy start re-evaluating their thoughts on murder…” 

* * *

 

 

Mr. Grasshopper woke up indulgently late and got out of bed with a slow stretch and a sigh. Mrs. Ladybug’s postman had come by for a visit last night and Mr. Grasshopper did not expect that she would be by before afternoon. And though he’d made a recent habit of arriving early, Mr. Centipede could not appear before nine. Mr. Grasshopper decided that a bit of lying about the house with Rachmaninov and a light breakfast was in order. His grandfather clock chimed seven times as he tied the belt of his dressing gown and wandered down his steps, running his hands through his hair and seeking a pot of tea.

Tea in hand, he set the needle on the record and sighed, closing his eyes and listening to the first faint strains of the great composer’s work. He sat himself down on his sofa and crossed his legs, balancing his cup of tea on his knee as his fingers played along with the notes that drifted lazily through the air. He hadn’t enjoyed a slow morning in some time--usually he was dressed as soon as he got out of bed.

He hadn’t been sitting down more than a few instants when he heard the roar of an elderly motor and the slamming of a car door. Mr. Grasshopper frowned, reaching up and turning the volume up a little louder. It wouldn’t do to wake the neighbors, of course, on this lovely weekend morning, but he didn’t particularly want to have the sunny air filled with the noise of an engine, either.

There was more slamming and Mr. Grasshopper put his tea aside with an aggravated grumble. His bay windows were opened and he peered through the thin curtains, wondering who on earth could be out and about and causing a ruckus this early.

Mr. Centipede was hauling a dense sack out of his car, a cigar held in the side of his mouth. He lifted it with a little bob of his knees and slung it across his back, grunting and shifting with the weight of the thing.

“Good heavens,” Mr. Grasshopper said, re-wrapping his robe around himself. He checked his clock, certain that he must’ve slept in to a grievous degree.

Seven thirty. What on earth did the man think he was doing? If he came any earlier, he’d arrive while Mr. Grasshopper was still abed!

Mr. Centipede must’ve heard his music, because he looked up and caught sight of him holding aside the thin curtain. “Hey, Hops,” he growled. “You wanna give a guy a hand? Thing weighs a fucking ton.” He’d burnt out a little anger on the way there, but his temper was still running high. He wouldn’t be able to let go completely until he got some work done.

“Well, I’m not really dressed to be out and about. But if you won’t mind waiting…”

“Hops,” Vern said with a glare he was trying to hold back, “ PLEASE. I jus’ really need to get to work before I ‘splode or somethin’!”

Taken back by the outburst, it had been a while since the older man had viewed the younger one’s temper- he nearly forgot he was possible of it, Grasshopper went against his better judgment. As upset as he knew he should be from his worker’s attitude, there was an inkling in the back of his mind that something was wrong. And the musician had become far too attached, as of late, to let himself neglect these concerns.

“All right. I’ll be down in a moment.”

Vern was grateful that a moment actually was just that. While he began to worry he’d have to lug it after all, adding to his already shitty day, his rage was fleetingly diffused as he saw his boss come out his door. The gardener gave himself a moment to appreciate the red robe the other man was wearing, and noted how the color looked on him. Yes, crimson- much approval.

“How shall I be of assistance?”

“Just grab the other end there. Yeah, that’s good.” They started to traverse their way to the backyard and towards the tarp covered project. “Thanks fer the help, honestly my back was having some trouble there.”

“Not to seem rude,” Grasshopper paused as he helped set down the sack of cement, “ but why did you buy such a large amount. I knew you said you required more to finish the job, but this seems like a ridiculous amount for the remainder of the job.”

The gardener grumbled.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I kinda sorta maybe possibly got into a confrontation of sorts, n’ bought the bigger bag. But it wasn’t my fault! That jackass neighbor of yours jus’ comes up behind me, and then goes insultin’ my integrity. Took everything I had in me not to clobber him in the damn store!”

Mr. Grasshopper gave him an annoyed look. “You got in a fight with Mr. Rabbit in the hardware store before seven o’clock in the morning? How do you have the energy, Mr. Centipede?”

“I said it wasn’t my fault! He just started bitchin’ at me and how could I keep from telling him off?”

“What exactly did you tell him?” Mr. Grasshopper said, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

Vern couldn’t help but grin crookedly, despite his bad mood. “Told ‘im he needed to replace the stick shoved up his ass.”

Mr. Grasshopper scowled at him. “I see that diplomacy is not your strong suit,” he said coldly.

Vern felt himself getting steamed all over again. “I’m plenty diplomatic! I just ain’t gonna let that tight-assed pansy son of a bitch talk down about my hard work!”

Mr. Grasshopper held up both hands. “It is indecent to have this conversation with you now. I would prefer to be fully dressed if I am to be out of doors.”

Centipede couldn’t help but get a second eyeful of the old man, aggravated as he was. That robe made Mr. Grasshopper look pretty damn hot, he had to admit...he knew what those hips could do when he played the violin, and quite a bit more skin was on display than he was used to seeing on the old guy. Vern figured that something good had come out of an early morning, at least. “Look all right t’me,” he said, smirking at his boss.

Mr. Grasshopper tugged his robe further into place, deciding abruptly that a) he was going to start wearing more clothing to bed and b) that he was never holding off dressing before he went downstairs again. “Just...do whatever it is you need to do to get your temper sorted, Mr. Centipede, and when I’m dressed, we’ll discuss of the proper way of smoothing things over with Mr. Rabbit in the future.”

“I got his wagon fixed.”

“I sincerely doubt that, sir,” Mr. Grasshopper said coolly, turning and walking through the backdoor into his house. “One so rarely measures success by the vulgar things we tell our neighbors to do.”

Vernon found himself disagreeing, but decided it wiser not to bring it up.

So after rolling up his sleeves, exposing the hairs on his arms and toned muscles, the gardener set out to begin his work. As he began to pour and mix the cement, his mind became cloudy from the rhythmic stirring. Earlier troubles slipped away as he was lost to his labor. And by the time he poured the building agent into the frames to begin creating the pathways, Vernon Centipede was content.

The white haired man seemed pleased to find the man in a better mood by the time he returned, fully dressed. He was also pleased to see just how much had been done. Who knew it was a little rage that could get the shorter man to increase his work production and promote his focus?

The redhead turned his head some, to look over his shoulder, as he continued to smooth out and even the concrete. He gave an amused smirk towards his boss’ admiring scrutiny.

“Like what you see?”

“I certainly do,” Mr. Grasshopper said, stepping down to take a look at the progress. “If I am quite honest with you, I have next to no idea what you’re doing.”

“Yeah, don’t figure you lay much concrete in your line of work,” Vern replied. “Looks pretty good so far, right?”

“Indeed,” he said, neatening his mustache. “I had thought it might be somewhat oppressive in such a small garden, but I do think that this shall look quite good.”

“Ain’t the size, it’s what you do with it,” Vern said, glancing up at the old man as he observed the concrete laying process. Mr. Grasshopper adjusted his tie and smiled slightly.

“I had not thought that was a concern of yours, of all people, Mr. Centipede,” he said, plucking a gardenia blossom off of the bush and fitted it into his button hole.

“Can’t rely on size alone, y’know,” Vern smirked, pouring a little more cement into the frame. “Makes ya lazy.”

“Well, one cannot ascribe that to you, that is true,” Mr. Grasshopper said, examining the fountain to try and hide the quirk of his lips. “No matter what else, I must agree that you nothing if not diligent.”

“Glad ya think so. Don’t matter if nobody else sees it, as long as you do.”

Rather than questioning the double negatives, the older man straightened himself up as he was steered away from his infatuations. Ah, yes, Mr. Grasshopper had nearly forgotten about the earlier tiff. Curse his gluttony for amorous advances, even of the joking variety!

“Which reminds me, about Mr. Rabbit…”

“Oi, there ain’t no reason to ruin the mood with talk of ‘im.”

“I’m afraid we must, though. As irritating as I also have found his behavior, as of late, Mr. Rabbit is my neighbor. And when you share residence with such a man, one must create concord. Especially when one plans on living in their home for the rest of their remaining days.”

“But-“

“’But’ nothing.” Mr. Grasshopper switched from a stern expression to one more beseeching. “I ask that you humor me in this regard, if you would. If not to make peace just for the amicable side of things, then do it for me.”

The freckled faced man tore away his gaze in a huff. The lankier being could tell he was aggravated; though, besides that, he couldn’t read his thoughts. Theodore Grasshopper almost imagined he would explode from anger once more, until the other surprised him by letting out a long breath.

“Alright.”

“All right?”

“Yeah. ‘Alright.’ I’ll try to be on my best behavior around the jerk. ‘Diplomatic’, as you say. But I ain’t making any promises. I’ll just say that I’ll TRY.”

“That is all I could hope to ask of you, Mr. Centipede,” Mr. Grasshopper said, smiling.

“Well, hell, Hops, that can’t be all,” Vern said, “you gotta get creative. I bet there’s a lot you could ask of me, and if you ask nice, you might just get it.”

Mr. Grasshopper cleared throat quietly, rolling his eyes. The man truly was incorrigible. He decided that it was about time to go in; it was much too easy to get used to this kind of saucy behavior and if he didn’t put an end to it, he would like as not begin to pine and would hover all morning in his garden like an over-large, besotted moth.

“I’m glad we could discuss it,” Mr. Grasshopper said, tugging on the hem of his coat and straightening his back. “Right. I shall leave you to your labors...and I’ll just let a pot of coffee sit in the kitchen, if you should like any.”

“Thanks,” Vern said, sitting back on his heels to look at the few squares of cement. “If you want any chichi details or patterns or whatever, now’d be the time to let me know.”

“I leave that entirely in your hands, Mr. Centipede,” Mr. Grasshopper said. “Yours is the design and yours should be its execution.”

Vern looked at the cement for a moment. “Chichi it is,” he said, and began carefully producing shell-like patterns in the wet concrete.

Mr. Grasshopper smiled and slipped indoors. After a moment, he reappeared. “Oh, and I nearly forgot to mention--”

“Yeah?”

“Pray, Mr. Centipede, have a little kindness when you time your arrivals,” Mr. Grasshopper said with a rueful smile. “If you come in any earlier, I shall have to make you a temporary bed on the sofa.”

“Well, Hops, looks like if you ask it, you get it, this morning,” Vern said, smirking at him. “You want, I’ll try’n contain my enthusiasm a little better so I last a little longer and don’t come so quickly.”

That was enough to get Mr. Grasshopper to close the door entirely, his stomach dipping pleasantly from the incredible impropriety of the man’s innuendo. The man was such a pleasant torment, but a complete and total torment just the same.

* * *

 

 Summer brought many wonderful things; however, the boiling heat was not one of them. And by the end of that July the sun had been doing its best to roast all of Milton Heights. That day, in particular, had started out fine. Warm, but was cool enough to work and go about their usual tasks. The gardener had another early morning, and had put the finishing touches on the pathway. The pathways were looking beautiful, and he smiled to himself in satisfaction as he cleared away the framework and straightened up. All the red-head needed to do was add a little soil to fill in remaining holes, straighten up the yard, and turn the damn fountain on.

However, by the time Vernon had completed removing the frames, the sun was high in the sky and doing its best to murder him. The freckled man had removed his shirt long before, and yet he still felt himself sweating like a pig. His body glistened as he removed his cap, wringing it out some as he realized just how drenched his perspiring had made it. Centipede looked over the remaining work that needed to be done, and sighed in frustration.

“So damn close…But I just can’t be out here anymore. I’m DYING!”

Vern grabbed his shirt and stepped onto the back porch, immediately sighing with relief as the shade took effect. He was going to be red as a lobster after today, he thought, but it’d be worth it. Looking around, he figured that this was going to be the last day he’d have to work on this yard. Much as he was looking forward to the finished product, he was going to miss having a good, long project like this. He’d have to find something new to work on.

He stretched a little. Time to head in. Get some of that sweet, cool air and have a drink. He’d been sweating like a pig today and if he didn’t rehydrate he’d probably die before he even finished up.

He opened the door and stepped inside, expecting the blissful blast of cool air and only stepping into a humid thickness only scarcely less dense than the outside air.

“Jesus Christ,” he groaned, trudging inside.

* * *

 

“Oh, dear God, my love,” Mrs. Ladybug moaned, stepping inside. “You, too?”

Mr. Grasshopper had abandoned his coat and waistcoat, the top button of his shirt undone, sleeves rolled up, and his tie loose around his neck. Survival in this heat had at last taken priority over sartorial niceness. “I, as well,” he confirmed. “I am surprised to find myself not alone.”

“I woke up this morning to a God-awful rattle and the system died hours ago,” Mrs. Ladybug said. “What happened to yours?”

The electricity in the area had flickered around midday, although it had been restored almost immediately. Something about the lack of connection, however brief, had disrupted Mr. Grasshopper’s central air conditioning system. He’d made the proper calls, but the earliest anyone could be out to take a look at it would be the following morning.

“Oh dear,” Mrs. Ladybug sighed, sitting down on one of the armchairs.

“I’m afraid we’ll just have to be miserable for the time being.”

“Speak for yourself, Hops.”

Grasshopper turned to look behind him, startled to see how red his gardener was. He made his way towards the other man, concerned for his safety.

“My word! Are you all right?”

Vernon Centipede couldn’t help but laugh, despite it all.

“Yeah, don’t go sweatin’ over me, you’re drenched enough as is. This ain’t been the first time I had a little too much sun, and it won’t be the last. Could use some of that H2O you got lying around, though.”

The lankier man nodded, and went to the kitchen to fetch it. While he did that, the red-head noticed Mrs. Ladybug sitting on the sofa.

“And hello to you, ma’am. It’s roastin’ in here, ain’t it? Do you got the 411 on why? Please tell me he doesn't like it that way.”

The woman shook her head with a smile.

“I’m afraid it isn’t his tastes, dearie. It seems an earlier power outage has made a mess of both of our cooling systems. Though not as old as we are, they must be getting on in years. And it seems we won’t be feeling the sweet relief of a breeze anytime soon.”

“I’m hurt,” The sunburnt man said with a frown, “Why didn’t you two say somethin’ before? I would have stopped to get you two situated. Nobody wants to be driving you guys down to the ER from a heat stroke.”

Vern looked around the room, trying to figure out the layout of the home. It took him only a moment to spot the white of the thermostat against the verditer blue wall. The gardener went over to it, turning the dial to the off position. He then looked over his sunburnt shoulder to look at Mrs. Ladybug.

“Mkay, now do you know where he keeps his circuit breakers?”

Before she could reply, the home owner returned to the room, holding a glass of water for the gardener. He looked surprised to see the shorter man across the room. Vernon decided to switch gears and ask him instead.

“Yo Hops, where's your circuit breakers? We’re gettin’ your shit together.”

“Pardon?”

Mr. Centipede walked towards him and was thankful when the older man handed him the water. After taking a few gulps, he clarified what he meant.

 “You had a power outage earlier, right? Usually this kinda stuff can just be fixed by turnin’ everything off. No need to wait it out in this heat, having to pay some lazy joe, just to have him turn it off and back on. I’ll get you set up, and it won’t cost you nothin’.”

“You are a man of many talents, Mr. Centipede,” Mr. Grasshopper said, somewhat surprised. “Follow me--the circuit breaker is in the basement. Pardon us, my dear,” he said to Mrs. Ladybug, who waved her hand cheerfully.

“Best of luck, boys,” she said, as they disappeared down the hall. Mr. Grasshopper opened the door set into the side of the staircase and they descended the dim and somewhat dusty steps.

“I’m sure you do not have much concern over it,” Mr. Grasshopper said, “but I confess myself truly alarmed by the state of your skin. Perhaps you ought to wait until the sun is less oppressive to continue working.”

“Hops. You’re gonna make me blush,” Vern grinned, hands stuck in his pockets. “I been running around in the sun since I was younger than James. Ya build up a tolerance and it don’t bother you none.”

“I should live in dread of skin cancer,” Mr. Grasshopper said. “There is the circuit breaker.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Vern shrugged. He grinned, glancing down at his red arms. “The sun loves me.” He popped open the box and looked around for the main switch. “Lucky this is kind of an easy fix, y’know. This kinda weather’ll kill people.”

“Yes,” Mr. Grasshopper sighed, as Vern switched off his home. “Let us hope it shall happen to none of our neighbors.”

Vern waited a few seconds for the house to wind down, and then flipped the switch again. From elsewhere in the basement, there was the dull roar of a machine purring to life.

They hurried up the stairs and stepped out beneath one of the air vents in the ceiling. Mr. Grasshopper sighed blissfully as cool air blasted down on the pair of them. “God bless and preserve you, Mr. Centipede,” he said, unrolling his sleeves and reattaching his cufflinks. “You must allow me to give you a little something for your trouble.”

“What? Naw man.” Centipede put his hands up in defiance. “If I won’t let you pay an outside man, why would I take your dough? That’s practically criminal and would be robbin’ ya.”

“Yes, however, I feel I should compensate you somehow.” The white haired man’s chocolate gaze fell onto the shorter man’s sunburned body. “Please, at the very least, let me give you something for your skin. I keep aloe vera lotion around for emergencies: razor burns, cooking accidents, and so on and so forth. It should help you with your inflammation.”

The sunburnt gardener thought it over. In all honesty, he wasn’t quite ready to go back into the heat yet- the cool air just beginning to do his own body some good. Vern shrugged his shoulders, before resting his hands comfortably in his pants pockets.

“Eh, whatever. If it’ll make you feel better. Sure.”

Mr. Grasshopper disappeared up the steps for a moment and Vern wandered into the kitchen to get himself a second glass of water. He was just draining it as his boss reappeared, waistcoat back on, with the small tube in hand.

“This should do you some good,” Mr. Grasshopper said. “The sooner it’s treated, the sooner it heals. That sunburn shall be brutally painful later.”

“Eh, I’m a pretty hard guy--don’t faze me none,” Vern replied, taking the tube and squirting a little green gel onto his palm and rubbing it across his arms and the tops of his shoulders. “There. That’ll do.”

“Mr. Centipede, there is still the whole expanse of your back,” Mr. Grasshopper observed.

“Can’t exactly reach it myself,” Vern pointed out. He waggled his eyebrows. “What? You offering?”

“I suppose I am,” Mr. Grasshopper said, blinking a little at his own boldness. Something in him whispered caution, and he cleared his throat. “It would be the least I could do.”

Vern smiled slowly. “Yeah, all right. Should I just lean on the counter for ya?”

“Why don’t we adjourn to the dining room?” Mr. Grasshopper said rather quickly. “You might wish to sit down.”

Vern smirked a little, amused by the thought of what the old guy would’ve done if he’d just bent over the counter and told him to go for it. He had to admit that he was pitching pretty hard when it came to teasing Mr. Grasshopper, but there was just something about the guy that Vern couldn’t help but want to mess with. It was even better when he talked back--that little bit of push and pull in the garden was something else!

He plopped down in one of the ritzy dining room chairs and spun around, straddling the back and resting his forearms on the crest rail. He heard Mr. Grasshopper drag a chair up behind him and sit down and listened to the soft pop of his cufflinks as he removed them from his shirt and rolled up his sleeves again.

“Getting those outta the way? Didn’t think it’d be such a production...I didn’t figure you’d be gettin’ dirty,” Vern drawled.

“Nonsense,” Mr. Grasshopper said firmly. “But when one is wearing a white shirt and is interacting with a bright green fluid, one is a fool to neglect his precautions. I had a pair of sleeve guards once upon a time, but I’m not sure where they’ve gone...”

Vern tensed up a little as a trickle of thick jelly slid down his spine. It was gorgeously cool and--much as he didn’t really want to admit it--would probably do a hell of a lot to make sleeping on his back tonight even a possibility. “Huh.”

Mr. Grasshopper lightly and carefully touched his bare fingers to the other man’s reddened skin, trying not to cause any irritation. “Good heavens, man,” he said quietly, beginning to gently spread the gel across the hot flesh, “you are absolutely scorching.”

“Why Hops, I do believe you just called me ’hot’.”

If Centipede was facing the other man, he would see the small smirk that spread on the older man’s face. It actually took some effort to make his lips go back to its more neutral state.

“Hush now.”

Silence was not what was given, however. Right when Theodore Grasshopper felt comfortable enough to place his palms flat onto the reddened skin, Vernon gave out a hiss. Mr. Grasshopper almost jerked his hands away, when he decided if they were going to be so delicate they would end up in this position all day. And while a part of him would relish the notion, the olive-toned man was sure that the pain would end up causing trouble for his gardener later. So one must sometimes have a stiff upper lip and tread on.

Centipede’s hisses of discomfort were quick to turn to moans of pleasure as the lotion began to take course. Whenever Grasshopper’s warm palms would leave an area of his back, the air would create a cool tingling sensation. The shorter man’s nerves and skin seemed to prefer the feeling, while his muscles asked for more of the musician’s touch. Vern let out an “ooh” of approval as the older man took the initiative and began to use his thumbs to kneed in his tense shoulder blades.

“Y-yeah, that’s feelin’ pretty good…”

Grasshopper took this to mean he could go on, and he was ashamed to say that he took advantage of the rare experience. He felt himself bend over more, bringing himself closer to the man underneath him. His own fingers and palms tingling from the lotion, Theodore found himself creating a rhythm of strokes and where he applied pressure. It felt good to have the feel of the man’s muscles between thumbs and fingers. It sent off its own excitement to the pleasure center of his brain. And he’d admit it, at least to himself, that he was getting lost in the noises made by the shorter man. Oh, how he wish he could play Vernon all day, in many other ways besides a simple hand massage!

Vern had the distinct feeling that he was going to melt right through the chair and onto the floor if Hops kept this up. Figures that he’d be good with his hands--he didn’t do no hard labor, but his job was pretty much all about dexterity. The old man somehow knew just where to touch him to make him groan and what soothed his skin best, feathery little touches or the warm, heavy press of the heels of his hands here or there. Vern finally felt like he was cooling off at last, even as he started to feel heat building in his lower belly.

Hops dragged those long, talented hands up and down his back and Vern really thought he was going to start purring before too long. He’d always been a vocal kind of guy, but even just this much contact was getting him to groan. Mr. Grasshopper slid one clever hand up and rubbed at the base of Vern’s skull and Vern swallowed a growl. Oh, did he ever know what he was doing! Vern suddenly wanted a different kind of touch, maybe that neat white mustache dragged up the back of his neck--or better yet, down the join of his leg and hip.

“Pray relax,” Mr. Grasshopper murmured, close enough to make Vern feel like he was going to combust.

“Bet this’d be easier if I was lyin’ down, huh?” Vern asked.

“Such is the traditional position, yes,” he replied, hands sliding slowly down Vern’s back to press his thumbs into the hollows at the base of his spine. Vern hissed delightedly--shit, he kept all his tension down there and having Hops’ warm hands going to work on him made him feel like he was about to scream. The older man dug firmly into knotted muscles and Vern felt that heat in his hips grow even hotter, his body alight and alive from Mr. Grasshopper’s ministrations. It made his spine shift and his hips cant forward, the heavy rubbing sending something electric zipping up his back to spear at the base of his brain and drag a low growl out of him.

Vern wouldn’t mind getting the old man in the ‘traditional position,’ at the moment...he wanted those hands to migrate around to his front and start sliding up and down, and when Hops had the lay of the land, he wanted to get the old man on his back and do whatever he had to do to break that cool, collected composure of his into a thousand tiny pieces. It wasn’t fucking fair, being half-naked and felt up and horny while a guy sat behind you dressed and sober as a judge! He wanted to make Hops feel all of what the old man was bringing out with him, and more, and watch him lose his precious control.

Hearing the growl, Mr. Grasshopper had the sudden urge to run his hands around to the front the man’s hips, for it would take the merest extension of his wrists and he could likely get another low rumble of a noise out of the man who produced what were possibly some of the most melodic tones he’d heard in years. His sounds of innocent relief seared through Mr. Grasshopper’s flesh and made his blood beat much too hard, and may God help him but he wanted to make music with this man in the most trite, cliche, appallingly carnal sense of the term.

This was becoming inappropriate. That could’ve been a growl of pain, he forcibly reminded himself, and belatedly slowed his ministrations to speak.

“All right?” he asked.

“Fuck yeah,” Vern groaned, in a voice that vibrated so low and deep that Mr. Grasshopper swore it would make his bones rattle, an echo of a bass rumble that would make his whole body tremble. “Don’t stop--”

“Mr. Grasshopper?” Mrs. Ladybug said from the hall. “The air’s back on. Are you boys up from the basement yet?”

Grasshopper found himself whipped back into a straight pose, his spine and body so erect he feared he may have gotten whiplash. The old man’s face was that of a violent hue; one would have sworn he was as crimson as his night robes. With his hands tingling from the aloe still, the older man thrust his hands behind his back, as if he was a child caught with their hands in a cookie jar. He was in this pose when Mrs. Ladybug entered the room.

“Oh, there you two are.” She looked them over, noticing Vernon looked upset, and noticed his boss looked embarrassed. “Is everything all right, dears?”

The freckled ginger uncurled himself, sitting up in the chair, sighing as he did so. He bit the inside of his cheek, as he tried to will his body to calm down from the earlier excitement. Grasshopper took this time to explain the situation.

“Er, yes. Yes, everything is quite fine. Mr. Centipede wouldn’t accept any monetary compensation for providing us with a working cooling system, so…”

 Mr. Grasshopper’s lips felt dry, as he gave them a quick moisten before continuing. “So I decided the least I could do was provide him with relief from his sunburn. Aloe vera does wonders in such circumstances.”

‘Yeah, no kidding.’ Vern couldn’t help but think.

“However,” the older man went on, “ I do believe that is sufficient enough. Thank you for your assistance, once more.”

“Uh, yeah. Sure. And thanks for puttin’ the stuff on me. You did wonders, jus’ like you promised.” Vernon Centipede stretched out of the chair, before heading towards the door. He used his hat to cover his eyes, and tried his best not to look back at the man who may have gave him the best massage he ever felt. “Now, you said your place was out too, Mrs. Ladybug? How about you show me where to go, and I’ll get you all set up. Ain’t no reason yours shouldn’t be just as easy to fix.”

“Oh, thank you, dear, it would be such a relief. Let me just fetch something from the kitchen.”

“Sure,” Vern said, and headed out of the dining room and toward the front door.

Mrs. Ladybug looked at Mr. Grasshopper with bright, concerned eyes. “My love, are you quite all right?” she asked softly. “You’re white as a sheet.”

“Fine!” Mr. Grasshopper replied, shooting to his feet and clasping his sticky hands together, heading out of the dining and into his kitchen, turning on the faucet and thrusting his still-tingling hands under it. “Merely...a little untidy. I should redress, now that we have restored to my home a bearable interior climate. I think I am a little out of my usual stride.”

Mrs. Ladybug dared a hand on his upper arm. “Darling,” she said gently. “I don’t think you need to be so worried. All is well.”

 Mr. Grasshopper stretched his hands a little under the flow of water from the sink, attempting to lose the remembered sensation of slick skin against his own. “I believe I have tipped my hand,” he said, barely above a whisper. “And I was very wrong to do so.”

Mrs. Ladybug wanted to disagree--Vernon had not at all looked opposed to whatever it was he had seen of Mr. Grasshopper’s hands--but he was waiting at the door for her and her friend was much too embarrassed to bear more scrutiny so soon. “I shall be back before long, my love, and perhaps we can talk about it a bit.”

Mrs. Ladybug left the kitchen and Mr. Grasshopper ran the faucet until he heard the door close behind them. Alone, he turned off the water with a slight shudder and took a slow, deep breath.

He was far, far too invested in his gardener. It had been bad enough, knowing only that he could have grown fond of the man; worse, knowing that he did as a fact; but it was far too bad, acting upon that. He would be out a gardener and, he flattered himself to say, a new friend, if he could not control himself better.

Mr. Centipede found their interactions funny and to be quite honest there was no reason in the world that he should not do so. Mr. Grasshopper recognized as well as anyone the innate humor in the human condition and saw no reason to be offended or wounded by the playful and insincere attentions of a handsome man, provided they had a tolerably decent context, and he could be counted upon to return fire when the action got particularly heady. But they were moving out of the safety zone and into something very dangerous. He had already been much too attached to Mr. Centipede before the man had ever begun flirting with him, and now...

He hadn’t touched another man in years, hadn’t been touched for longer, and though he understood it, the fact that his skin was starving for the merest contact and he was practically panting with unsatisfied lust made his behavior no less reprehensible. True, Centipede had not seemed to object at all to his actions, but Mr. Grasshopper was reading into it import that it could not possibly contain.

Now it had to end. The judging procedure would start in a scarce two days, he thought coolly, as he unrolled his sleeves and determined firmly that they would stay in place for the remainder of the day. He shrugged into his coat and buttoned it, adjusting his collar and tie in the hall mirror. The garden would be seen, the contest would run, they would either win or they wouldn’t, and when it was over, Mr. Centipede would spend somewhat less time around the house. It would be a loss, naturally, but the gain in Mr. Grasshopper’s sang-froid would have to be enough to recoup it.

He walked over to his piano and flicked the tails of his coat out of the way. The violin would be a bit raw right now--Bach might come out and disrupt his equilibrium--but Beethoven would get the job done just right.

 


	6. Judgment Day

Scrooge McDuck was a very busy man. In his youth, his father taught him that time was money. All his life he had to work for what he had, and many a time life had tried to take it away from him. These experiences had left him bitter as the years went on; the bearded man would fight and haggle down to the last penny. And “charity” was not a word in his vocabulary.

Mr. McDuck removed his specs as he tried to rub out the tension he felt growing between his eyes. The women next to him had been prattling on and on for hours, as they went from one house to the next. Scrooge had been roped into being a celebrity judge for the Disney Gardening Competition, even though he himself was not a citizen of the city of Anthropolis. The city was, however, where his own McDuck Fertilizer Industry was located, which was why he was asked to participate.

The white haired man recalled what he had said when they had contacted him in Duckburg, while he was busy sorting things out with security for his money bin.

“Are ye daft, lass?! Why in the world would ah want tae waste my time with a thing like judging yer little garden show?”

Then they had said the magic words:

“We’ll pay you handsomely for it.”

And there he was, wasting away a day he could have been counting his large wealth and assets, instead assisting in something as trivial as yard work. He found himself glaring off into space, leaning onto his cane, when his thoughts were interrupted by an uppity huff.

“Mr. McDuck, your thoughts?”

“Yes? My thoughts on what?”

Lady Iris, head of the local garden committee, puffed up her chest as she brought her spectacles closer to her face, leering down at the shorter man.

“The garden, Mr. McDuck,” she said with a faint sneer. “Do you not agree that the state of the flowerbeds is utterly appalling?”

Scrooge glanced in the direction of the beds. “As far as I’m concerned,” he said, “it’s the wrong kind of green and there’s no gold to be found, so it’s a waste of my time.”

Lady Iris humphed and Mrs. Rose, another local matron, gave her a cool look.

“Now, I do not think that is true at all,” she said. “There’s such a lovely wealth of flowers, all different varieties and kinds. I think it is quite the mistake to specialize when you can have such a profusion of beauty.”

“It indicates a lack of standards,” Lady Iris said firmly, marking something down on her judging pad. “You are simply too easy on your old school friend, Rose, be careful that you need not recuse yourself. Kluck hasn’t the slightest idea how to run a garden--it would all be meadow if she were let loose.”

Rose sighed, shaking her head. “Mrs. Packard?”

The elderly woman took a long, slow drag on one of her omnipresent cigarettes and dropped the butt into an empty terracotta flowerpot. “I don’t think so,” she grumbled, adjusting her hat to shade her head a little better.

Mrs. Rose felt the urge to slap her hand across her eyes. In past years, she and Iris had been the only permanent fixtures of the flower show. They’d liked to have guest judges, of course, and Madame La Grande Bouche had been kind enough to join them many times. Generally, Iris was the gloomy dark spot in an otherwise cheerful yet exacting panel--Rose, Madame La Grande Bouche, and any other judges were usually willing to be pleased.

Not this year. Mrs. Packard had dropped a cigarette butt on every garden they’d visited so far, grinding it out yet making her opinion no less clear. Iris was a misery to be with when she began to show her snobby colors and Mr. McDuck could not be contented with anything but the prospect of the check they would cut him at the end of the afternoon.

Madame La Grande Bouche trotted lightly though the tomato bushes with a radiant smile, one of her hands holding her broad sunhat on her head. She was impeccably turned out, as suited the editor of a prominent fashion magazine, and was floating about in a beautiful sundress, the picture of summery joy.

“You must come smell the patcholi plants!” she cried. “They are absolutely divine!”

Curious, Rose followed her. Iris lifted her glasses again to look down on her friend as she went to go and stoop to smell a flower.

“No standards at all,” Iris murmured, making another sharp note in her little book.

* * *

 

Vern stuck his head out of the bay window and looked up and down the street. “When do you think they’re gonna drop by?”

“Oh, not long, I expect,” Mr. Grasshopper replied distractedly, turning the page in his book. “And if not today, then tomorrow.”

Vern grumbled and glared at the older man. “How can ya be cool as a cucumber while I’m ready to lose it?”

Mr. Grasshopper tapped the line where he’d stopped reading and looked up. “You have nothing to be nervous about, Mr. Centipede,” he said. “You have done good work and the garden looks very well indeed.”

“Don’t mean we’ll win,” Centipede said.

“Certainly not. But I daresay we can’t lose,” Mr. Grasshopper replied. “I think a beautiful garden is a net gain no matter how one looks at it.”

Despite himself, Vernon felt himself throw a genuine smile towards the older man.

“You’re a good man, Hops.”

“Thank you,” The lanky man said with a small grin of his all, before returning back to his T.S. Eliot. His smile began to wane, however, as he kept re-reading the lines on the page:

’ _And would it have been worth it, after all,_

_After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,_

_Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,_

_Would it have been worth while,_

_To have bitten off the matter with a smile’_

“Mr. Prufrock,” Mr. Grasshopper found himself muttering under his breath, “perhaps you are not the companion I should be keeping with me right now…”

The older man was jolted from his melancholy, however, by his gardener’s cry.

“That mother fucker!”

“What? What is it, Mr. Centipede?”

He pointed out the window he had been peering out of, Vernon’s face already becoming inflamed from anger.

“Rabbit! That jackass is sneaking his way towards the place. As if nobody could see how obvious he is.” Vern rolled up his sleeves, and began marching towards the door. “I oughta-“

“You OUGHT to remain calm, Mr. Centipede, “ The lankier man said, placing a hand on the other to stop him. “If you recall, you DID promise me you would try.”

The ginger’s freckled face loosened its glare, as Theodore Grasshopper could see an internal struggle developing in the younger man. He raised a brow in confusion, as Vern exhaled some of his tension. This seemed to calm him down a tad, as the gardener spoke once more.

“Alright. You’re right, I promised. I ain’t gonna start no trouble.” The man began to walk towards the door again. “But I’m also gonna make sure he don’t neither!”

Mr. Grasshopper seriously considered correcting Mr. Centipede’s grammar, before deciding that such an action must constitute fighting a losing battle. “Allow me to intercept him,” he said, removing his hand from his gardener’s shoulder and walking into the hall.

He quickly examined his clothing in his hall mirror, straightening his tie and smoothing back his hair, before answering the door. Mr. Rabbit was barely halfway up the steps.

“Good afternoon, sir,” Mr. Grasshopper said, hoping without much expectation that Vernon was not making faces at their guest through the window. “I am surprised to meet you,” he lied.

“You certainly aren’t!” Rabbit said, walking up the rest of the steps. “Now, for heaven’s sake, tell me if you’ve seen them!”

Mr. Grasshopper thought seriously about sending this man away with a flea in his ear, before taking a good look at him. Rabbit was transparently agitated, his eyes frantic and rimmed with dark circles. He was neatly dressed, though rather poorly, his clothing an obvious second- or third-thought on this morning.

Honestly, Mr. Grasshopper felt rather bad for him. Mr. Centipede’s comment about him being ‘cool as a cucumber’ came to mind. Merely because he was not agitated did not mean that the contest was anything less to be deeply and passionately concerned about.

“I have not seen them yet,” Mr. Grasshopper said, “and I am not sure if they will even come today. Perhaps you would come in and sit down? You look quite disturbed and it is much too warm for such panic.”

“Oh no!” Rabbit exclaimed. “I won’t let you steer me about and talk over me any more! I insist that you show me your garden!”

“Mr. Rabbit, be reasonable,” Mr. Grasshopper murmured.

“Reasonable? Reasonable! Is it reasonable to deny a simple request, I ask you?” Rabbit insisted. He hurried down the steps to the first landing and stepped into the path that would take him around the side of the house and into the garden. Mr. Grasshopper hurried down the steps after him.

“Mr. Rabbit!”

But the smaller man was already gone around the house and through into the backyard. When he reached his intruding neighbor, Mr. Grasshopper found that Mr. Centipede had rushed through the house and out the back door to meet them.

“Ya dirty little sneak!”

But Rabbit was obviously not listening to Vernon's outrage, pushing past him to look at the garden. “Oh my God,” he murmured miserably. “It’s absolutely gorgeous!”

The red head had been just about ready to pounce, when the frantic intruder had threw him that curve ball. Vern Centipede felt himself go numb from confusion.

“Eh, what now?”

Rabbit did not hear him, as he was lost to his own plight. His eyes darted back and forth, taking in every little itty bitty detail.

“The pathway just leads your eyes right to the fountain- the center. And…and…Oh god, and then the foxgloves arranged with the lilyturf and wax-belles!” The blonde haired man grabbed at his face, as if holding himself together. “And the heucheras! Crème Brûlée heucheras! Oh, they are the loveliest I’ve ever seen!”

Rabbit whipped himself around, glaring with tears in his eyes at the gifted gardener.

“You liar! You said you weren’t professional. You said you’ve been learning as you’ve gone along. You LIED and tried to give me a false sense of security!” The crazed gardener wagged his finger violently at the sunburnt man. “Oh, but I saw through you since the beginning. I knew you would be a little cheat! No integrity among the likes of you! I’ll report you both for this. Must be violations all around. I’ll overturn every stone or plant until I find them, too! You will never be able to show your face amongst your flower bed ever again!”

While Rabbit spewed sentence after crazy sentence, getting more and more into the red-head’s face, Mr. Centipede felt himself grow angrier and angrier. His vision began to black out, as he grinded his teeth. The shorter man could feel the veins on his face and neck throbbing painfully. His breathing became labored; the world swirled in his rage.

And yet, all the while, Vernon Centipede held his tongue. His fists remained to his sides, lest he go into autopilot and beat the living daylights out of the other man.

He was so tense he almost didn’t feel the pressure of a strange hand on his shoulder. By the time he registered it, he peeked his eyes open to see the back of Theodore Grasshopper as the tall man pulled himself up to his fullest height to loom above the shaking, pale little man whose furious accusations were devolving into mere stammers.

“Shut your mouth, you absolute blithering idiot,” Mr. Grasshopper said, jaw tight as he refrained from clenching his teeth. “I stake my life on the fact that the man you grossly insult has more integrity in the smallest bone of his body than you have in your entire shivering corpus. Even if I hadn’t known the truth of the matter, I would swear up and down to any magistrate you could find that he is as good as his word in every regard imaginable. You, you spineless little wretch, are to vacate my property and remove your odious presence this instant lest I physically escort you out.”

“Ph-physically escort...?”

“That is if can restrain myself from breaking your nose,” Mr. Grasshopper said.

Rabbit squeaked and slid around him, hurrying away. Mr. Grasshopper watched him go with a nearly-violent expression, which he ineffectually attempted to disguise by taking off his monocle and polishing it furiously. “The absolute bloody nerve,” he hissed. “He knows nothing. Precisely nothing! If he dares to bring this up as a matter of argument, I shall spare no expense whatsoever to flatten whatever case he makes.”

He replaced his monocle and looked at the thunderstruck Mr. Centipede. “And you!” he exclaimed, gesturing toward the gardener. “Dear God, man, he was begging for a sock in the jaw. I would’ve loosened his teeth if he’d been talking my work that way.”

He straightened his back, frowning over his shoulder to look into his garden. “I suppose we should be flattered, as well as horribly offended, if he was so convinced that you were some professional gardener, in addition to being a mere blackguard.”

Mr. Centipede heard his teeth click together behind his lips. He’s been staring, slack-jawed.

“Uh,” he said, but Mr. Grasshopper was already looking past him.

“Ah,” said the old man, tugging down his coat and seeming to shake off the trouble of the last few moments. “The judges are approaching.”

Vernon whipped around so fast he nearly hurt his lower back; his happy high was quick to turn back to trepidation as Mr. Grasshopper made his way to the judges, extending his hand. The ginger man, however, stayed put as he used his hat to shield his eyes.

The first judge, with her bright red hair tucked under her bonnet, made her way towards the home owner. The group of other judges just a few steps behind, following like little ducklings. She extended her hand out in greeting.

“Mrs. Rose of Milton Height’s Garden Committee, how do you do. I assume you’re the owner, a Mr. Theodore Grasshopper?”

“Yes. That is I.” He finished shaking her hand, as the group made it there. He extended his hands out to the others, but only the robust woman in her fashionable garbs took him up on the friendly offer. The other three looked unimpressed.

“This is Mrs. Packard, Lady Iris, and the very honorable Mr. McDuck,” Mrs. Rose said, frowning at her colleagues as they did not introduce themselves. Mrs. Packard blew out a low stream of smoke.

Mr. Grasshopper awkwardly covered his rejection with a stiff bow, before gesturing towards the stairs. “Please, after you.”

Vern felt his palms begin to sweat as the mostly-unfriendly group approached. Mr. Grasshopper slid around the side of them and waved a hand towards him. “Please allow me to introduce Mr. Centipede. He performed most of the work.”

The officious Lady Iris placed her spectacles before her eyes. “Did he, now?” she asked. “You are aware that we do not allow professional work in the contest.”

“Mr. Centipede is not a professional gardener, madame,” Mr. Grasshopper said, tilting his head pleasantly. “He is employed at the community center.”

Lady Iris lifted her nose. “And what is it that you do, young man?” she asked.

Mrs. Rose nudged her. “Iris. None of your business,” she hissed.

“‘m a janitor,” Vern grumbled.

“And you certainly talk like one,” Lady Iris sniffed, pulling herself up even taller. Mr. Grasshopper, none too far from one flash of overwhelming indignation, clenched his hands behind his back. “Well,” Lady Iris said, turning to look Mr. Grasshopper up and down coolly. “Do make it quick.”

Mr. Grasshopper smiled frostily and led the way into the garden.

Mrs. Rose was delighted by what she saw. The bright, tinkling fountain made for such a pleasant atmosphere and the healthy lawn and bright flowers were in full, magnificent force. A handsome wisteria arbour stood romantically tucked away in the back of the yard, while two smooth pathways led to the four sides of the lush garden.

Madame La Grande Bouche immediately gravitated towards the fountain and grinned, delighted by its refreshing coolness and the stately air it gave the garden. It was just right--handsome but not showy, proud but not overbearing. Rather like the homeowner himself, she thought with a slight smile.

Scrooge took one look at the place and cursed under his breath. “And how much did you spend on all this?” he asked Mr. Grasshopper, who stood between him and Mrs. Packard.

Mr. Grasshopper’s left eyebrow jumped. “I have submitted an itemized list in my application package,” he said, a chill smile on his face. “I would be delighted to send a copy to you.”

“Bah!” Scrooge cried. “Too much, is for certain. It’s all rubbish, every bit of it.”

“Oh, that’s where you’re quite wrong, Mr. McDuck,” Mrs. Rose said. “Why, just look at this beautiful gardenia bush, and the lovely arbour...!”

Mrs. Packard took the last long drag of her cigarette and let it slip from her fingers. Glancing down, she moved her shoe to grind out the butt, only to find an ashtray inches away from her, her discarded butt caught in it. Vern Centipede held the tray and put it on the porch for safekeeping.

She pulled out another cigarette and Vern dragged a stogie from his shirt pocket. “Think I agree,” he grumbled. “Need a light?”

Mrs. Packard let the gardener light her cigarette and watched as he lit his own cigar. A decent brand--she’d smoked them when she was ten years old. The smell made her think of being a girl again.

Maybe this garden wasn’t the worst one yet.

While the other women gave praise, one way or the other, Lady Iris was busy turning up her nose at every little thing. She humphed as she lifted up petals, and tsked before jotting down notes in her notepad. The judge’s dark chestnut pompadour bounced as she moved from one area to the next, sneering all the while. Nothing quite fit her standards.

Then again, things rarely ever did.

“Andromeda,” the critic heard her name sighed, “Can’t you find anything you like?”

Lady Iris became more rigid, as she turned to her fellow matron. Her eyelids closed as she felt the woman close to her. They were to the side of the garden, away from the others, as they spoke intimately.

“I have my standards, Mrs. Rose. And this is a competition. It’ll do you good to remember that we MUST actually pass judgment.”

Mrs. Rose put a hand on the broad shouldered woman, guiding Iris’ vision as the red-headed woman pointed to the fauna in front of them.

“But don’t you just love the shade of pink the snapdragons are?”

“Too pink, if you ask me.”

“And the Bachelor’s Buttons?”

“Too wild,” Lady Iris had the blue flower between her fingers. She shook her head in disapproval. “Some places have clusters, and other areas scarcely have any at all. It creates an unorganized eye-sore.”

“I think it looks lovely.”

The brunette found herself giving a small smile, despite her best effort.

“Now let us be reasonable, Loraine, you tend to find yourself attracted to the strangest things.”

Rose chuckled to herself, covering her lips with her delicate hands. “I suppose you are right, in some fashion.” Her deep blue eyes twinkled, as she looked towards the other woman with warmth. “And I’m sure my daughter would agree with you.”

“Livana has always been one of good tastes; I had hoped, as the years went on, she would have taught you a thing or two.”

“Oh, now you’re just trying to tease again.” Mrs. Rose playfully poked the other woman. “Besides, that’s what you’re for. Now come on, I’m sure there are other things to look at, besides this corner. Maybe a quick word with Mr. Grasshopper, before moving onto the next house?”

Lady Iris said nothing as she peered down at her notes. She looked back up to see the backside of the other judge, obviously waiting for her to follow.

“Fine. I’m sure the next house can’t be as ghastly as this one, so there is hope.”

The two walked together, side by side, and close at hand. There was still too much to do, and the day was hardly done. And as they wrapped things up, corralling up the others to go to the next home, Mr. Centipede couldn’t help but feel glad when they all left.

Alone with Mr. Grasshopper in the garden, he sighed. “Jesus.”

“Hmm,” said the older man. “I think it went quite well, actually,” he murmured, turning and walking into his garden to take a look at it for himself.

“Yeah?” Vern asked. “And what makes you think that?”

“It was less frantic than Mr. Rabbit’s assessment, which I can only take to be an improvement,” Mr. Grasshopper observed, running the tips of his fingers around the largest bowl of the fountain.

The name of the neighbor reminded Vern of the unbelievable performance Mr. Grasshopper gave defending his honor. He was still amazed that the old guy got so pissed for his sake--he’d known that Grasshopper didn’t hate him, sure, since they got along pretty well, but he figured that all the old man felt some weird mix of pity and tolerance for him. To know Mr. Grasshopper liked him was a great surprise--to know that he liked him enough to get in another guy’s face like that?

Vern grinned a little to himself.

Meanwhile, Mr. Grasshopper was just relieved to have his home to himself again. He was not fond of these intruding busybodies...if he’d known he’d have to bear so much insult to garden and friend alike, he might have had more serious doubts about entering.

Looking around his garden, however, he smiled. Then again, he never would’ve had such a beautiful addition to his home if he hadn’t gone out on a limb.

“Well,” he said thoughtfully. “I suppose we shall know in a few days. Until then...” He glanced over his shoulder. “I am on my own for supper. Would you care to join me? I planned to order something light...”

Vern took a drag on his cigar. “How ‘bout I cook something?” he suggested, grinning. “Ya seem to like what I make, anyway, and I could stand to see you eat something, since you look like you’re about to blow away with a stiff breeze.”

Mr. Grasshopper smiled a bit, his mouth curled halfway up. “All this and cooking, too. Mr. Centipede, have your powers no limits?” he asked, walking into his house.

“Tell ya when I find ‘em,” Vern laughed, and followed him.


	7. Phantasmagoria

_The body of his instrument treated with tender care, he shifted the weight of his prize, carefully drawing it back into an embrace he consummated with his whole body._

_He knew his instrument as he guided it back to settle its neck on his shoulder. A beloved creature, the bass companion to his cherished violin, the more physical of the two. His violin was an animal of the mind, a chirping, high-flying little god that sat on his shoulder and nudged his chin up towards heaven and his mind towards the realm of thought. The daemon of music, of cerebral bliss, the pure and ethereal gatekeeper of the kingdom of the mind._

_This mighty monster was a different beast altogether. It lounged between his thighs, keeping his legs open for its pleasure, its beautiful body requiring him to lean forward and look down the long planes of its curves. It drew him down, causing him to shift his gaze and his body towards earth and carnal flesh. He drew his fingers gently across its smooth red finish and shuddered as it groaned deeply for him, a one-note symphony of pleasure whose depth and richness made his blood beat harder._

_Bach, he thought, Cello Suite #1 in G, Praeludium. It had always aroused him, from the deep thrusts of the first measures to the spiraling, tremulous ecstasy of the end, a peak that reached higher and higher until he was certain that he could not stand it any longer, until he was sure it could not go on, but it did, ravishing him utterly. He could only hear it alone, stifling his own sounds and trembling with bliss and with desire, his poor frail body electrified, teased, undone by the supreme pleasure of its song. Praeludium in all its erotic perfection was the only suitable piece for such a magnificent beast as this._

_He began to play, long, careful strokes and clever fingers hard at work. The tips of his fingers danced across the hot, sweet throat, feeling the rattle of his instrument’s breath under his skin as he cupped the back of his beloved’s neck. He stroked firmly, dragging the most inexpressibly sumptuous noises from his instrument, his mouth buried against its neck and shoulder, panting, kissing his adoring lust into its skin as they drove each other higher._

_His instrument sang for him, its rough and vulgar tongue so exhilarating, so sweet, when one knew the sterile and untouchable beauty he surrounded himself with day by day. It promised him delirious things, passion he would beg for, if he had the wit or voice or will to obscure even a second of his beloved’s Song of Solomon. He caressed his prize with hungry, desperate hands, lost in the ecstasy of touch and the slick slide of skin, his idol dragging him through that pinnacle of frenzy that made his body quiver with desire, with the agonized need to feel his beloved’s hands on him, just a touch, just the briefest contact with his hot and yearning flesh._

“ _Vernon,” he whispered, unable to resist calling its name as he shamelessly worked his instrument hard, hands pumping and body pressing in as he urged his beloved on with all his heart and soul. “Oh, God, Vernon, please, I--”_

He awoke suddenly, the luxurious dream image dissipating and leaving him with only the broiling physical effects that no mere trick of the mind could ever reproduce.

He groaned his distress quietly and swallowed, trying to ignore his lusting body and his guilty mind as he lay in his bed, alone and burning.

* * *

 

_Hot. So very hot. The heat was sweltering, his body was burning. Vern needed to cool down, he needed a nice cool glass of water to keep his insides and outsides from burning into a cooked piece of red meat under the sun’s oven._

“ _Water, Mr. Centipede?”_

_The ginger whipped his head around, not at all surprised to have been in his boss’ garden. It felt, as of late, that was where he was living. Apartment building? No, send all the mail to Theodore Grasshopper’s backyard -- that was his residence now._

_The shorter man looked up, grateful that the lanky being was there with exactly what he needed._

“ _Thanks, Hops. I think I’m dying out here.” He took the glass, and downed it in only a few gulps. However, as dry as he still felt, the redhead was at least beginning to feel like himself under the other man’s gaze. He did, however, glare up at his boss. “And here you are, in layers. Fuck! Ain’t you hot, old man?”_

“ _I am.” Mr. Grasshopper said with a frown. “And here I am, yet again, with a broken thermostat. It seems I’m having the worst luck, as of late, keeping the thing maintained.”_

“ _No kidding. Why didn’t ya say anything? Come on, let’s go fix it. Nobody should be in this heat. Shit, I’m sweating worse than a pig at a barbeque on a fourth of July weekend!”_

“ _It seems you had the right idea in removing your top. If you can’t see to my air conditioner, I might have to follow suit.”_

_At first Vernon felt his brain prickling at the realization that he was, indeed, sans shirt. It dawned on him that he didn’t know when he had removed it. But with talk of ol’ Hops “following suit”, the sunburnt man found his thoughts swiftly changing to disappointment that he couldn’t make the sun even hotter. However, it was unbearable, as is, and the gardener was concerned for his boss’ safety._

_Things moved in a blur, and the next thing Mr. Centipede knew, he was in the basement with the breakers. Looking it over, he realized it wouldn’t be so simple of a job this time around. ‘Must be a wiring problem,’ Vern assumed to himself. The freckled man was thankful when, looking down next to his feet; the tool box was already there. ‘Thank god, I sure as HELL didn’t want to go back outside.’_

“ _Any way I can be of assistance?” The gardener turned around, to see the home owner standing to the side, composed as always. Mr. Grasshopper was straight as a board, head held high, as his hands gracefully tucked behind himself. If Vernon hadn’t known better, he would have thought him a statue._

“ _Eh, not much, really. Though, I might need a chair just in case I gotta reach for the higher wires. Sometimes those bastards like to keep outta reach, ya know what I mean?”_

“ _I can make assumptions about the situation, yes.” The other man’s white mustache twitched and the gardener swore he saw a smile. “I shall go procure a chair for you. Just a moment, please.”_

_The older man returned quickly with what was needed. Taking the seat, Vern stood on top of it, as he went looking for the trouble. Seconds felt like minutes, and minutes felt like hours. All the while the sunburnt man felt himself perspiring fiercely._

‘ _Shit, this is getting dangerous. I gotta do this fast before we ALL get cooked!’ The ginger became startled when he heard panting behind him. He looked over his glistening shoulder, as he voiced his worry. “Ya doin’ okay back there, Hops?”_

“ _I’m so terribly sorry. “ The older man heavily exhaled. He began to loosen his neck wear. “Excuse me as I become indecent. But under the circumstances…”_

“ _Yeah, I getcha. Don’t worry about it.” The gardener readjusted his hat as he smirked in encouragement. “You become as indecent as ya want. Ain’t nobody else gonna see but me.”_

“ _Well, in that case…” Mr. Grasshopper’s nimble fingers went to work on removing his smoking jacket. His hands stroke the thick burgundy material, before reaching for his buttons. Vernon could hear the popping of metal fastenings leaving the tight little slips of fabric. POP. There went the top. POP. And there went the bottom. Pulling his arms back behind him, the olive-toned man had the jacket slide off his shoulders, exposing the white collared blouse and black paisley vest underneath._

_Vernon Centipede had never been more mesmerized as he was by the simple act of someone taking off their coat. He felt his pulse sped up, as his lips became dry from a new kind of thirst. The gardener’s eyes instantly glued themselves the other man’s exposed throat, his gaze taking in the sight of flesh he rarely ever saw._

“ _Uh, feelin’ better?”_

_Theodore Grasshopper grinned seductively, his words leaving his lips in a purr._

“ _A bit, yes. However, I’m afraid this might not be enough to cool down my perspiring flesh.”_

“ _Still too many layers.”_

“ _I couldn’t have agreed more, Mr. Centipede.”_

_The lights in the basement dimmed until the room went completely black. At first the younger male feared the power must have gone out, which would mean he couldn’t evaluate where the source of the wiring problem was. But as the lights returned, centered and focused on the older man in the room, this fear became lost in a sea of other thoughts. Vernon wasn’t thinking when he decided to get off the chair, and sit in it instead._

_Then again, the gardener was always a man that went with what felt right, rather than questioning a good thing._

_Before he could come up with any sort of witty joke about a sexy strip-tease, Vern’s jaw almost hit the floor as the man carried out just that. As if on stage, performing for a room of patrons, the older gentleman began to slowly- but seductively- strut towards the man to the chair. Violin music could be heard in the background, the notes rising and falling to Hops’ alluring movement. Centipede’s heart drummed in his chest loudly, so much so, he feared it might over-power the song. The gardener found himself gripping his pants legs, as he waited for his beloved boss to make his way towards him._

_One foot in front of the other. Step, drag, pause. Step, drag, pause. Step, step, step, pause. He was almost there. He was almost close enough to touch- and Vern raised his hand to do just that. But, NO. Right as he began to do so, Mr. Grasshopper smirked and turned on his heels. Though in a slower pace than one he came, the white haired man started to walk away._

“ _Hops,” the shorter man found himself growl._

_The lanky being stopped, looking over his shoulder. His dark brown eyes cool, even in his passion._

“ _Patience, my good man, is a virtue.”_

_The double-breasted vest was next to go. Four buttons of torture later; though fingers stopped every so often to pause in a dramatic show, the vest was finally open and fully exposing the shirt underneath. Mr. Grasshopper turned away, giving Centipede a great view of his backside and rear. With a slight arch of his spine, the article of clothing fell to the floor. He kicked it to the side, not caring if the satin would be soiled or not._

_Vernon began to get up, when that notion was quickly expelled from his mind by the older man bending over. His long legs were straight, even in this action. His clothed rump was perfectly on display, as he rolled up his pants legs enough to reach his shoe’s laces. It was enough to see some black cotton socks peeking out from under dark brown pants legs. The ginger watched, licking his lips, as those lovely hands slipped off the shoes._

‘ _Shit,’ Vern couldn’t actually help put reflect during the display, ‘he’s actually gettin’ comfortable!’_

_Theodore Grasshopper, while still bent over, looked over his shoulder. The freckled face man couldn’t help but think those dark eyes were looking straight through him, as he began to rise towards his full height. The tall man stretched, raising his arms above his head. While doing so, in a slow display, he subtly rocked his hips back and forth towards the music. Vernon couldn’t help but be reminded of the first time he saw his boss sensually pelvic thrust to his own playing._

“ _F-Fuck…”_

_Mr. Grasshopper stopped his actions, a smirk displayed under the white of his facial hair._

“ _Vulgarity isn’t allowed, Mr. Centipede.”_

“ _Then what the hell do ya call all THIS?!”_

“ _Art.”_

_The redhead couldn’t disagree with that. And even as he felt his member grow harder and harder, becoming uncomfortable tight underneath his trousers, Vernon couldn’t help but mutter obscenities to himself, as he couldn’t sit still in his chair. His hips squirmed along to every little movement the other man gave. By the time the home owner began to undo his collared top, the shorter man could barely contain himself. Vern panted as the older man made his way back towards the chair. However, green eyes of lust became a glare as the ginger saw that Theodore had an undershirt hidden beneath the buttoned top._

“ _Oh hell naw, “the gardener snarled, “Ain’t sittin’ through that!”_

_Finding the gentleman close enough in range, Mr. Centipede sprung forward, both of his rough hands grabbing for the back of Hop’s head. Sunburnt fingers raked through the other’s white tuft, as their lips crashed into one another. Heat upon heat, whiskers rubbing on chapped skin. Grasshopper found himself stumbling backwards, at last losing his noble airs. Forward Vernon charged, his pent up energy crashing into the other man. They didn’t stop moving until the home owner found his back hitting one of the cement walls of the basement. He gasped as the shorter man moved from lips to neck, their clothed erections rubbing against one another._

_With that ever present coolness, Mr. Grasshopper could be heard scolding over the ginger’s head._

“ _Whatever happened to patience?”_

“ _Couldn't wait no more.”_

_The tall man found himself smiling, even as the rougher man began fumbling with the buttons of his trousers. If the redhead would have removed his face from the crevice of Mr. Grasshopper’s neck, he would have easily been able to see it was fastened by a metal clip. He chose not to bring that to the other’s attention._

“ _No appreciation for a good performance.”_

“ _Hey, “Centipede said in a huff, “I watched, didn’t I? Now help me get ya out of these damn pants. Fucking feel like I’m gonna 'splode if I don’t fuck ya!”_

_Vernon felt the warm hands of the olive-tone man on top of his own. The nimble and long fingers maneuvered Vern’s own rougher digits to the clipping. In no effort at all, compared to the gardener’s earlier handlings, the fastening was undone._

_The redhead mumbled in thanks, and the next thing he knew, both of their pants were down, undergarments taken care of, as flesh was on top of flesh. Fuck, Hop’s cock was just as long as the rest of him. But where he had in length, he did not have in the girth department like the shorter man had. Centipede found himself smiling, as he thought how much he would make the man appreciate it._

_Realizing they had no lube, Vernon held out a hand to Mr. Grasshopper’s mouth. Sensing the confusion, Vern explained as simple and as quickly as he could._

“ _Spit.”_

“ _I beg your pardon!” the uptight man exclaimed, “I certainly will not!”_

_Frustrated, the vulgar man took it upon himself to do it instead. Hacking up a large glob of saliva, he used his hand to lather it over the shaft of his member. Enjoying the feel of himself in his hand, he gave a quick squeeze before easily lifting and supporting the taller man. Hops, using the wall as support, wrapped his legs around the shorter man as Vernon eased into him._

“ _Fuck, Hops,” he hissed, “you really are a tight ass!”_

_Mr. Grasshopper said nothing; however, as they both began to rock with each other, he began to moan as his employee thrust in and out of his lower orifice. Centipede growled as the tight hole squeezed around his tender flesh. ‘Hot’ and ‘wet’ was all his brain could translate from the harmonic movement of their actions._

“ _Oh shit, Hops! Ah…Ah, fuck it all to hell!”_

_In and out. In and out. The sunburnt man took pleasure in how Theodore’s erection slapped against his hairy stomach with every thrust- his own family jewels creating a thwack every time they hit skin. The juicy and squishing noises were like music to his ears, and one he knew more intimately than any of the beautiful pieces the musician could play._

_His body was drenched by now, and Vern took pride in how the man against him was just as soaked. His lips turned upwardly in a satisfied grin; the ginger couldn’t help but be amused that they had soiled the once clean and white shirt._

‘ _Good, clean ain’t allowed when I’m doin’ ya!’_

_His thoughts were discarded, however, when the swelling of heat and tension in his belly became too much. He was closing in for a climax, and he was so looking forward to the much needed relief._

“ _Oh sweet lord- FUCK! Hops, I’m gonna…Oh god, I’m about ta- “_

Vernon Centipede’s eyes shot open, as he felt his erection throbbing way too tightly in his briefs. He rolled over in his bed, realizing he was alone and in his apartment, as his eyes caught the red glare of the digital clock. 3:27 A.M.

Fuck.

Bleary-eyed and cursing, Vern shoved briefs down and wrapped a hand around his prick, roughly pumping it and focusing on that last image of his strait-laced, uptight boss in nothing but a rumpled shirt, shoved against a wall, his prissy monocle gone and brown eyes dark and hot and burning with lust, getting fucked hard in that fine ass of his and loving it, giving Vern a grin like every dirty daydream come to life--

He lay back afterward, panting, carelessly wiping himself on a fistful of sheets. Shit. Shit, that was good. Vern was a fucking connoisseur of whacking off and though this wasn’t the best he’d had, it had to be in the top ten. He gulped down air, trying to calm down, that filthy dirty image of Mr. Grasshopper coming back to mind.

Where. The Fuck. Did that come from?

Even as he wondered it, he knew he wasn’t being honest. He knew exactly where it came from--it came from staring at the guy’s ass and seeing him in his bathrobe and liking the way he looked when he was mad. It came from the fact that the old guy was hot enough now that he must’ve been fucking radioactive when he was younger.

Hell, it probably even came from Vern knowing that Grasshopper actually liked him.

Vern grumbled, rubbing his eyes tiredly. He was too worn out for this kind of thing...he really didn’t need the aggravation. Hell, he didn’t think there was no harm in a guy thinking about someone else while he jerked it, but good as it was--and damn, was it good--he couldn’t help but feel weird. How the hell he was supposed to look Hops in the eye ever again, all perfect porcelain touch-me-not as he was? The thought of Hops’ icy nature sent an ill-timed stab of arousal through him as he recalled just how hot that cold living statue had gotten in his dream.

Thank God this only came up now. If he’d had to deal with it while they were working on the garden, he’d have gone batshit crazy every time the old man took out that fiddle of his.

Vern rolled over and curled up again, but he didn’t fall asleep for a very, very long time.

* * *

 

“I see,” Mr. Grasshopper said into the telephone. Vern leaned forward, trying to read his expression. The old man looked serene, but that was the way he always looked, up until the point when something actually managed to crack his facade. His voice didn’t give anything away. “Thank you so very much for telling me, Mrs. Rose. Aha, yes. My deepest gratitude. Indeed, that would be fine.”

“What is it?” Vern hissed, frustrated.

Mr. Grasshopper gave him a brief glance before his eyes darted away. “Oh, I assure you, it was our pleasure. Yes. Thank you very much. Good afternoon.”

Vern nearly leapt across the kitchen counter and shook the words out of the old man. “Well? Well?”

Mr. Grasshopper’s expression finally revealed something--sadness. Vern’s heart sank. “I am so very sorry to have to disappoint you, Mr. Centipede,” he said gently. “But we did not win.”

“What?!” Vern hollered. “Yer shittin’ me! Or they’re shittin’ you! Who the fuck won?! It sure as shit wasn’t Rabbit, that simperin’ little candy-ass’ yard looks like shit!”

“Mr. Centipede, please,” Mr. Grasshopper murmured, frowning. “There is no need for unkind vulgarity.”

Vern grumbled. “Who won?” he asked.

“Mr. Trusty, of all people,” Mr. Grasshopper admitted. “I confess myself surprised. I did not think he was much of a gardener.”

Vern stared at him. “Trusty? The old Confederate guy?”

“I’m sure he is not sufficiently aged to qualify as a Civil War veteran, Mr. Centipede,” Mr. Grasshopper replied, smiling slightly.

“No, fuck that. I’m not letting this go.” Vern grabbed Mr. Grasshopper’s arm, tugging him towards the hall. “C’mon, Hops, we’re going to go take a look.”

“I am quite shocked, Mr. Centipede. I would’ve thought you were all in opposition to sneaking,” Mr. Grasshopper murmured, allowing himself to be dragged.

“Jesus tap-dancing Christ, Hops, would it kill you to call me Vern?” Centipede finally asked, swinging open the door and throwing the old man outside, giving him an exasperated look.

“Perhaps Vernon?” Mr. Grasshopper asked, straightening his clothing even as he tasted the word across his lips for the first time.

“Fine, whatever. Just don’t keep acting like I’m some stranger.”

“I assure you that such had never been my intention,” Mr. Grasshopper said, following the man and waving aside the plumes of cigar smoke that appeared as he stomped down the stairs. “I admit I am in the habit of calling my friends by their last names.”

Vern smiled a little at that. Friends, huh? All right. He could get behind that...and a little more, if a recent string of sleepless nights had anything to say about it. “Yeah, well, ‘scuse me, Hops, but I don’t particularly wanna be lumped in the same category as Mrs. Ladybug. Don’t get me wrong, the old girl’s great. But I think, you and me? We got ourselves a whole ‘nother situation.”

Personally, Mr. Grasshopper couldn’t agree more.

The two men were nearing the corner, a block away from the older man’s own home. The gardener only had a general idea where the neighbor’s place was, from the rare times James was over with those older female friends of his. But as they turned, he admitted he hadn’t the slightest idea which yard he was looking to criticize and knock down a few pegs to make his own ego feel better.

“Say, er, Hops…Which one of these houses is the old guy’s?”

Mr. Grasshopper smirked.

“Had you not known all along? I assumed, with your take charge attitude as you dragged me out my door, that you knew perfectly well Mr. Trusty’s location.”

“Come on,” Vern said gruffly, crossing his arms, “I know I ain’t the only one that wants to see what beat us.”

Mr. Grasshopper tsked as he stepped onto the walk that led up to the left side of the handsome brownstone duplex. “I do not see why you persist in describing things in such black and white terms, Mr. Centipede--Vernon,” he said, correcting himself. “We were not beaten. Others had a preference for horticultural matters that did not mesh with our personal tastes.”

“Callin’ it a cowpie doesn’t make it any less shit, Hops,” Vern replied, kind of pleased despite himself at what his name sounded like coming from the old man.

“An astute point, Mr. Centipe--this will take some getting used to. Pardon the habit until it is repaired,” Mr. Grasshopper said as they walked up the stairs. “An astute point, I say, but I do not think it germane to this particular situation. We did not lose, by any stretch of the imagination.”

“Don’t see no trophy,” Vern grumbled.

Mr. Grasshopper ignored that and rang the bell, standing back with a thin smile. Vern stubbed his cigar and stuck it discreetly in a nearby flower pot, where he could retrieve it when they left.

They waited for a long moment, before the owner of the house finally arrived. Mr. Trusty was a tall man who seemed to be very slowly melting, his mustache and hair and shoulders all drooping slightly on his frame. But he had an odd sort of handsomeness to him, something in the breadth of his shoulders and the bright alertness of his eyes that appealed to people when they saw him.

“Well, hello there,” Mr. Trusty said, stepping back and gesturing for them to come in. “Good afternoon, gentlemen, you’re just in time for a glass of iced tea.”

Southern hospitality, Vern thought. You had to hand it to them, they knew how to make themselves pleasant when they wanted to.

“How very kind,” Mr. Grasshopper said, entering the home with a smile. “Oh, what a splendid home, Mr. Trusty. You make such elegant use of light.”

“I thank you, sir, it is a matter of pride of mine to keep a handsome house.”

“That you certainly do.”

Vern rolled his eyes a little, watching Mr. Grasshopper chat up the old Southerner. Peas in a pod, weren’t they? The house was nothing special, though he guessed it was nice enough.

“I’m afraid we have an ulterior motive, sir,” Mr. Grasshopper said, taking a glass of iced tea. “Ah, thank you so much. We wished to congratulate you on your recent victory.”

Trusty’s mouth quirked in a wry expression. “Oh, bless my soul. That’s a whole story right there, sir, I can tell you that much.”

Vern lifted his eyebrows. “Yeah? How about you tell it?”

Trusty beckoned to them. “First you ought to see the garden. It won’t make much sense if you don’t see things, first.”

He led them out onto the back porch and Vern took one look at the garden before he squeezed his eyes closed, feeling like he’d go insane. Mr. Grasshopper looked around, desperately seeking something appealing to comment on.

It was a very, very plain space. The lawn was wide and smooth and green, and the side gardens had neat little patches of tulips, irises, a few sunflowers, black-eyed susans, lilies, and Russian sage, among a few others. A single magnolia tree presided in one corner. It was a very typical sun-loving garden, characterized by the major presence of the reedy, weedy sorts of plants native to the American Southeast.

In short, it was simply no match for Mr. Grasshopper’s garden. It was no match for any garden that prioritized creativity, in fact!

“What lovely daylilies,” Mr. Grasshopper said somewhat desperately, scrambling to be kind even as he kept an eye on what had to be Vernon’s roiling temper.

Mr. Trusty chuckled softly. “Well, thank you kindly, sir, but if I am perfectly honest, I have no idea why I won. I do not put much effort into this garden, and I only entered when a practical joke was played on me.”

He took a sip of his drink. “I simply do not deserve the prize.”

“Oh, no, no, sir, I cannot imagine that you do not--”

“Mr. Grasshopper, I know that you and this young gentleman in particular have been hard at work,” Mr. Trusty said. “If it is enough to so distress Mr. Rabbit, it must be something very remarkable. I believe I won on a matter of bad opinion, not because of merit, sir.”

Vern was kind of surprised to hear him say that. “Yeah? Whaddaya think happened?”

_And so Trusty began his tale about the day in question- always happy when he was able to spin a yarn, and wouldn’t mind telling this particularly peculiar adventure to the two guests in his home. It all started with the talk of Mr. Rabbit’s descent towards madness, and the talk that had been going amongst the neighbors. Mr. Jock, Trusty’s long time neighbor and companion, had brought it to the southerner’s attention. While it wasn’t necessarily the nicest thing to tease about, it was equally hard not to see the humor in how something as simple as a garden was being taken so seriously._

_That was when Jock joked about the ex-agent entering his own quaint garden into the competition to “spice things up”._

“ _Oh no, I couldn’t do that.” Trusty shook his head in disapproval, even while he smiled. “That would be awfully unkind, even with us just funning around. The other fellows have been working mighty hard to win. That would dampen their spirits.”_

“ _I don’t know about all that. You got some good land here, and I happen to enjoy it. I like to think you have every chance of winning.”_

“ _Now you’ve gone and started teasing me!”_

“ _Aye, but only a little. I like what you have, that’s for certain, but that Mr. Rabbit might see the fun in it. Might be some needed relief for that poor crazed man, to see someone pop up he won’t have to worry about. A joke could do him some good.”_

_Trusty only shook his head again, and when he got a confirmation notice reporting that his garden had been successfully entered, all he’d done was give Jock a dirty look or two and let the notice sit on his writing desk. If he’d known how much trouble it would be, he would’ve been quicker to rescind his submission._

_He’d forgotten all about it by the day the judges arrived, but his mother had taught him never to close your door when there was a guest with his face towards you, so he invited them in and gave them something to drink._

_A sniffy and rather impolite woman with a pompadour hairdo had been the first to insist to see his garden, and he led them all out back without much comment._

_He hoped they’d look, scribble down their judgments, and be gone quickly. Unfortunately, that was not what happened._

“ _Oh!” the pompadour woman had sighed. “Oh my goodness. It’s so beautiful,” she breathed._

_The redhead beside her looked astonished. “Andromeda?”_

“ _Oh,” Andromeda murmured, pulling a tape measure out of her pocket. “Here, Loraine, take this and...” She hurriedly took measurements of the size of the lawn. “Oh! It’s perfect! Why, it’s down to the last centimeter of perfection!”_

“ _What on earth--” Loraine began._

“ _It is the perfect lawn ratio,” Andromeda said. “I’ve never seen one better! And look at the flowers,” she cried, in ecstasy._

“ _They’re quite nice, I suppose--”_

“ _Look how neat and discreet they are! Look how well trimmed--I’ve never seen lilies of more uniform height! And the edging! You could use a line that sharp and clean to perform neurosurgery!”_

_The large woman in the broad sunhat was examining his magnolia and took a deep breath of its fragrance. “Oh,” she sighed, “we’ve seen such marvelous gardens today!”_

_Looking around, Trusty noted that only the sole gentleman was nearby. Glancing into his house, he saw that the old smoking lady was examining an ancient camera he keep on the mantelpiece of the living room, running gentle hands over it._

_He sighed as he looked at the old man, wondering if he could interject some sanity into these proceedings._

_Trusty’s hopes were dashed as the old man picked up the woolen tartan blanket from the Adirondack chair._

“ _Ye cannae be a Scotsman with an accent like that,” the man said, peering at Trusty’s face closely. “And so I ask ye--what are ye doing with a blanket in the Aberdeen tartan?”_

_At just that moment, Jock stepped out onto their shared porch. “Oh, God in heaven,” he muttered, smirking faintly, and caring not at all for the thunderous look Trusty gave him. “What have you got yourself into, laddie?”_

_This seemed to get the immediate attention of Scrooge McDuck- a man who could always tell when someone of his ilk was around- as he set the tartan down and marched over to the other man._

“ _A Scot! Now tell me, is this yer family tartan in this man’s house?”_

“ _That it is,” Jock smiled as he held out a hand, which was actually met and clasped by the shorter man, “ house of the-“_

“ _Of the Aberdeen! My, haven’t seen or heard o’ wink o’ the Aberdeen clan in ages! I had thought ye had all died off!”_

“ _Haha! Not yet, but getting there!”_

_Trusty watched in shock as his companion chatted up the judge, the mutton chop wearing man introducing himself- causing Mr. Jock to become more excited as their ancestors were apparently brethren against some foe or another. The tall man swore, as the two continued to talk, that their speech became less and less distinguishable as English- or much of any language, if you as the ex-agent’s opinion. If the body language didn’t tell Trusty that they were becoming fast friends, then the sudden hearty laughter did._

_He sighed as he realized everyone was going mad, and by the end Mr. Trusty might not be far off, himself._

“And that, I am terribly afraid to say, was how it all had happened,” Trusty said as he moaned into his hand, just recalling the day’s events causing the frustration to return. “My neighbor and longtime friend, a nice fellow in his own right, seemed to really get the judge all sociable. They were all taking up my home for so awfully long, sir, for one reason or another, I admit I didn’t know if I should start serving them some dinner.

“Oh,” he couldn’t help but sigh again, as he looked at the two guests, “sirs, do believe me when I tell you that this got completely out of hand. I apologize for any heartache you might’ve had over it.”

“Nothing of the sort,” Mr. Grasshopper replied, relieved to have confirmation that Trusty had won as a matter of preference and not superiority. “I congratulate you again on your win, sir.”

“A hollow thing it is,” Mr. Trusty said with a quirk of his lips. “But thank you kindly.”

“Yeah, uh...” Vern stuck out his hand. “Good t’see you again.”

Trusty shook warmly and smiled at the gardener. “And to see you, sir. Let me see you gentlemen out.”

Deposited back on the sidewalk, Mr. Grasshopper clasped his hands behind his back. “Well, there you are,” he said, for lack of anything more to say.

“I can’t watch you two ‘sir’ each other so goddamn much. Gives me a headache,” Vern said, relighting his briefly-abandoned cigar.

“We merely recognize one another as equals in spirit.”

“Is that what you call it?”

Mr. Grasshopper’s mouth curved wryly as they began to walk home. “I hope your curiosity is satisfied?”

“‘Bout the only thing that’s satisfied,” Vern groused. “It’s a fucking travesty, Hops, that a guy who doesn’t care and didn’t want it should win over all of us.”

“Yet I say without sarcasm or irony that he is possibly the nicest person it could’ve happened to,” Mr. Grasshopper replied. “There is always next year, after all.”

“Next year?” Vern asked, looking up at the old man.

“Certainly,” Mr. Grasshopper replied. “I enjoyed myself enormously. And I intend to do it again, if you are willing. Perhaps next season shall be the right time to put down something new in the soil.”

Vern grinned. “Well, hell, Hops, keeping me around the place? Sounds like you’re trying to cozy up to me,” he said.

“I have always admired your excellent self-esteem,” Mr. Grasshopper remarked in a dry tone. “I always rejoice to see it exercised, as now.”

“Damn, Hops, anybody ever tell you you got a sharp tongue?”

“No. Quite the opposite, actually,” he replied, pausing on the landing between the sets of stairs. “Well, I suppose I shall see you on a sparser basis. The garden shall require less upkeep for the rest of the summer.”

“I guess so. Yeah, see you Saturday, at least...I know you’ll lose your shit if the grass gets a centimeter too high.”

“We must have standards for a respectable garden, Mr. Centipede,” Mr. Grasshopper replied with a self-aware little smirk.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Vern grinned. “You’re slipping, Hops.”

“Oh, of course. I apologize. Then allow me to say good evening, Vernon,” Mr. Grasshopper said, holding out his hand to his gardener.

The sunburnt man had to mentally will himself from frowning at the thought, though, thankful he had the cigar as a distraction. Letting one exhale of smoke, to hide his disappointment, he grabbed onto the soft nimble hands of his beloved boss.

"Yeah Hops...Back atcha."


	8. Vibrato

_Drip._

_Drip._

_Drip._

Vernon Centipede felt like he was going crazy. As he lay in bed, eyes staring at his bare ceiling, he felt a pressure building up behind his eyes, working itself to the rest of his brain. The sunburnt man had searched everywhere, trying to locate where the dreaded steady dripping could have been coming from. He had tightened and loosened every pipe he could find in his one bedroom apartment. He had even contemplated ripping down the plaster to see if it was piping behind the walls.

_Drip._

_Drip._

_Drip._

The first day it had been kind of a blessing. It was something for him to do, to pass away the boredom. But as his digital clock showed the minutes slowly turning into hours and yet there was still no solution--nor problem, really-- to be found. Day two had been easier, as he had spent a good chunk of his day at the community center; and at least there was always something to keep him busy there. Sometimes his mind would drift, as he would spend his break going through the magazines left about by the people who forgot them, and he would get ideas of recipes he’d like to try on Mr. Grasshopper. Or he would find something in _Better Homes and Garden_ that Centipede couldn’t help but want to try on the gentleman’s yard. But as a strange sense of sadness and longing would begin to eat at him, the redhead would just set it aside and get back to washing windows or sweeping floors.

But at night Vern would be stuck with the drips. And on the second day the noise went from salvation to utter annoyance. And annoyance was quick to turn to swearing as he nearly found himself kicking in his television from his frustrations. And when it was time to finally go to sleep, then he was able to just blast his battery operated radio to overpower the sound…

Vernon then found himself lying awake all night as he wondered what the old man had been up to, and wondered if Hops had been thinking about and missing him too.

_Drip._

_Drip._

_Drip._

Day three had been pretty much the same as the day before. Working and keeping himself distracted from thoughts of the older man. However, as he was alone on his lunch break, he saw something he thought was especially amusing. A young group of teens, thinking they were the shit, had apparently thought it a great idea to form a band. And as they played, quite obvious that they never had a lesson, as well as being tone-deaf, he couldn’t help but hoot as he imagined a certain someone’s dignified cries of how “the ghastly music was murder on the ears.” And running on instinct, Vern ran and laughed as he found himself picking up the work phone.

“Oh man, Hops'll get a kick outta this!”

Half-way dialing the number did he realize what he was doing, and slammed the phone down in his embarrassment. The ginger growled in chagrin, as he slumped down into the chair closest to him. Vernon made sure to keep to himself the rest of the day, and even stayed and did unpaid overtime just so he wouldn’t have time to think about anything, let alone about old and handsome violin players.

By the time the freckled man returned home, he was exhausted. And Vern was happy his radio had been left on, so he wouldn’t have to hear the fucking goddamn drip the moment he walked through the door. And as he plopped down on his pillow, he smiled as the ginger fell into slumber.

He was, however, jolted wake, not even a couple hours later, from yet another dream of Theodore Grasshopper. Except instead of erections greeting him, Vern sighed in despair as he still felt the phantom kiss of soft skin and white bristles on his lips. And instead of the pleasure of a lewd remembrance, he instead was filled with longing to experience the sweet scene he had in his dreams.

Longing didn’t last long, however, as the gardener realized he was hearing the dripping again- this time louder than before. And he glared as his hands reached out to find out just why his beloved radio had ceased its blaring of classic rock distractions. Centipede turned it on and off, even shaking it, when it dawned on him that the batteries were probably dead. Correction-- the LAST of the batteries WAS dead.

FUCK! SHIT! GODDAMMIT ON A FUCKING WHORE!

Vernon threw the device across the room, only taking some pleasure as he heard it crash onto the wooden floor. He then sighed as he looked over at the clock next to his bed: 12 A.M.

It was fair to say the man did not get a sound sleep the rest of the night.

_Drip._

_Drip._

_Drip._

“Oh, will ya jus’ fuck off already!”

Vernon, back in the present, on the agonizing fifth day, was getting ready to head off to the community center. He felt like hell, and wanted to just keel over and die; but it was SAD how work was going to be the only thing that kept him away from his apartment and distracted. And as he was there, doing the same old boring maintenance and cleaning that he was paid to do, this time he couldn’t help but get lost in other thoughts. Thoughts of Grasshopper and wondering if he was doing all right.

He mumbled to himself as he realized just how stupid that was-- no doubt brought on by sleep deprivation! Of COURSE Hops was all right. He had Mrs. Ladybug there to make sure he ate and to give him the company he so rightfully needed. Vernon had no reason to even be thinking about the old man.

That didn’t, however, stop the sunburnt janitor from thinking about Mr. Grasshopper anyway. And by the time the work day was done, Centipede had convinced himself that he did NOT need to go and visit Milton Heights. He had no reason to be there; and, in fact, he was probably not even WANTED. But as the prospect of returning home entered his mind, Vern froze as he realized he was just returning to the dreaded dripping. Biting his inner cheek, the man growled as he ripped his hat off his head and began to bite it in frustration.

Fine.

Fuck it.

Vernon Centipede was going to visit his boss and check in on him. But ONLY because returning to his apartment sounded like one of the seven layers of Hell, and he was not ready to experience anymore water torture. At least, those were his thoughts as he turned heel and started running towards the nearest bus stop. And his pride and sanity couldn’t handle any arguments.

* * *

 

 Meanwhile, Mr. Grasshopper was paging through an old poetry anthology and half-listening to Scriabin’s _Poemes_ , a series of which he was not enormously fond but which seemed to be the only thing that could clear his mind. It had not been a pleasant week, although it had been a perfectly successful one.

On the first two days after he’d bid Mr. Cent--Vernon adieu, he’d had the pleasant distraction of performances to occupy his mind. Though in the course of performing and rehearsing he occasionally found himself observing the inevitable yet inappropriate connections between the food of love and the act of love itself, on the whole he was content with the situation.

Distance from his friend was what he mostly needed, anyway, and if he could do it and be greeted with thunderous applause, he was happy enough to do so. His acquaintances in the orchestra were always an interesting and engaging bunch, though he was not close to them, and it was pleasant to enjoy different company for a little while. Coming home exhausted and still buzzing with music at three AM was not an unpleasant experience, for his bed hardly felt empty when he was too weary to do anything but sprawl across it.

By the third day, he knew that all he had to concern himself with in the next days were the few lessons he taught, so he made the resolution to keep himself busy. Mrs. Ladybug was happy with the invitation to brunch out and merrily told him about her happy affair with the postman, whispering with a girlish smile all the details she could bear to breath in the relative seclusion of a corner table. Mr. Grasshopper was perfectly happy for her and was delighted to see how happy her young man made her, so though it made him feel more strongly the hole in his own chest, he encouraged her tale. A vicarious thrill was better than no thrill at all.

After brunch, they wandered through one of the Anthropolis art galleries, seeking cool marble refuge from the heat of the day and the elegant distraction of brilliant art. It was Mrs. Ladybug who noted the remarkable resemblance between the statue of a smirking satyr and Mr. Centipede.

“I would nearly swear it’s the spitting image of him,” Mrs. Ladybug said, shaking her head in astonishment. “Don’t you think it looks like exactly like him, Mr. Grasshopper?”

“I certainly hope not in every part,” he murmured to himself, casting a quick eye at the statue’s artistically diminutive nethers. Mrs. Ladybug heard him and laughed, swatting his arm, and he blushed and earnestly insisted that it had been a slip of the tongue.

In the evening, Mrs. Ladybug planted a kiss on his cheek and told him to enjoy himself as she darted across the street to await the arrival of her paramour. Alone, Mr. Grasshopper played a little something, ordered a small meal, and consumed it. In the middle of supper, the noise of an old-fashioned motor roared by and he abandoned his meal to go and see if he recognized the car. He did not, and he returned to his food feeling like a fool.

Afterward, he spent the evening alone in the wisteria arbor, listening to someone else’s music floating down the street, drinking a glass of wine amidst the slow dance of the lightning bugs in his beautiful garden. He watched the moon rise with a wry smile, rather whimsically toasting her slow grace and her pale complexion as she soared above the yellow-windowed houses of Milton Heights.

That night, he dreamt of satyrs and marble skin and Greece, the taste of wine-flavored lips and a sun-scorched embrace a faint memory that he could neither remember clearly nor easily ignore upon waking. He woke with a hollow chest and carried it about, attempting to fit little things like tea and books and breakfast and music into it.

So began the fourth morning, wherein he attempted to occupy himself with his music. Berlioz and Marie had a lesson at two and he would be wise to attempt to fill himself up with music now in an attempt to prevent any frustration later.

He stopped and started about fourteen different pieces, trying to find something that fit. Beethoven was too passionate, Chopin was too delicate, Boccherini totally ignored the events of the past few days, Mozart was as suggestive and frivolous as ever, Hadyn was full of a wit that remarked on nothing with any sincerity, Grieg approached something that suited his mood but couldn’t quite make it, and Faure was either much too dour or much too spritely. Bach was the only option.

And Bach’s music, in all its genius and its divine beauty, was absolutely torturous. Partitas, sonatas, allemandes, and minuets conspired to drive his mind back to salacious, adoring thoughts of his gardener and friend. Embarrassed by the extent of his infatuation, he abandoned them and put on something that did not fit his mood but at least prevented him from entertaining uncouth thoughts about Vernon.

The lesson with the children was its own small torment and by the time it was over, he was desperate to get out of the house. Mrs. Ladybug was preoccupied with one of her many charitable organizations, so he took himself out to watch a not terribly good performance of Hamlet.

Home by midnight, he put himself to bed and laid awake from some while, listening to the soft ticking of his clock and feeling the cold expanse of empty space creep up on him. When he slept, he must have dreamed, but upon waking, he had no notion of what had transpired in his mind though it left him with a terrible sense of longing.

As he went to make his morning tea, he found with delight that some manner of wildlife--a stray dog or perhaps a raccoon--had been at his tulips and had left them in a brutal state. Here, at last, was something to do! Vernon was, naturally, the only man for the job, and Mr. Grasshopper had already dialed his phone number and was listening to the ring when he realized, with a plummeting heart, that such a trivial matter could absolutely stand to wait until the gardener’s scheduled work day.

He hung up the phone with a thick swallow. Mr. Centipede would be very busy, of course, for he had carved out such a swath of time to devote to Mr. Grasshopper’s garden and must be catching up on all he had missed at work and among his own friends during the project. It would be appallingly wrong to drag him away again for something as meager as a few wounded tulips. Mr. Grasshopper tidied away a few of the flowers’ corpses and left the rest to be handled on Saturday.

He set himself up in his living room with a pot of tea, a book, and a bit of music to keep his head on straight. Of course, he knew withdrawal was always incredibly difficult, especially when one’s drug of choice had so few ugly side-effects and brought such a sensation of well-being. But an addiction was a poor thing to encourage and the only way to break it was to distance himself from Mr. Centipede as much as he could. Agreeing to call him “Vernon” was a terrible idea, for it only threw oil on the fire of his affection for the man to call him by such an intimate name.

He had to remind himself how to be happy with a house and a life that was often empty. It would be easier when Mrs. Ladybug and her suitor went their separate ways and the excellent woman would be more at liberty to spend time with him. He had nothing to complain about. Had his little wishes not always been nonsensical, even impossible? Of course. There was no reason to suddenly think that such flights of fancy were now possible, merely because he had enjoyed the pleasure of a few flirtatious conversations.

Dreams were made to dissipate and wishes left unfulfilled would wither away soon enough, but they took their sweet time to die, and the wait could rend his heart like nothing else. He should know better at his age how easy it was to mistake falling for flying, but it never failed to surprise him how hard the crawl back up to solid ground could be.

“This too shall pass,” he murmured to himself, turning a page.

It was with this in mind, that Mr. Grasshopper found himself confused when he heard mumblings outside his home. Probably someone there trying to work up the nerve to ask for donations, he couldn’t help but consider. Or just neighbors walking by, conversing. And the gentleman would have waited it out, not the very least annoyed or curious, if it weren’t for how long it lasted. Rising and falling, coming closer, and then going away in a flash. And while this baited the olive-tone man’s interest, he didn’t find himself jumping up from his seat until he heard a very familiar vulgarity.

“Shit! Jus’…just gonna go up there an- naw. This is ridiculous. I’m goin’ home!”

Mr. Grasshopper made it to his bay window in two strides, pulling back the curtains in desperation. His monocle popped from its resting place in astonishment. Outside, walking away from his steps, was the very man that had been obsessively taking over his thoughts-- both waking and not. Fearing the gardener might slip out of his grasp, when he was so very near, the musician found himself running to the door, and throwing it open.

This seemed to have frightened the redheaded man as he jumped nearly a foot from the ground.

“H-Hops! Jesus fuckin’ Christ!”

Mr. Grasshopper seized the handle of the door and held it, wincing in the aftermath of the enormous slam the door had made when it hit the side of the house. He looked down at Vernon, momentarily and idiotically confused by the fact that he seemed to be a little out of focus, before he felt the light weight of his monocle smack against his hip and hastily caught it up, fitting it over his eye and clearing his throat.

“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I did not mean to startle you. How are you this afternoon, Vernon?”

The man in question looked a little fidgety, but he walked up the steps to the first landing despite the strangeness of the other man’s dramatic appearance. “Uh, pretty good, y’know.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Hangin’ out. Just in the neighborhood.”

“Naturally,” Mr. Grasshopper said. Some higher-minded, detached part of him looked over the rest and murmured, ‘Addicted. Hopelessly addicted.’ “Keeping busy, I am sure?”

“Oh yeah,” Vern said, rocking back and forth on his heels a little. “Yep. Y’know, can’t just lie around. People to see, places to go, things to do. The usual.”

Much too busy to stand around in the sunshine talking to an old man. Mr. Grasshopper would do well to wrap this up quickly. “Indubitably.”

“Uh, you?”

“Oh, I have had the pleasure of performing recently,” Mr. Grasshopper said.

“Yeah? Nice. That’s gotta keep you hoppin’.”

“On occasion I find myself quite exhausted, yes,” he replied.

“Yeah, I figured.”

Silence fell between them, Mr. Grasshopper darting glances at his gardener and finding that he was preoccupied mostly with the sight of the house and the front yard.

Vernon cleared his throat, opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it. They stood in silence for a few moments more.

The words came out before Mr. Grasshopper could stop them. “My goodness, is it not extremely warm today? I had thought it would be so much cooler.”

As a matter of fact, the day was 80 degrees and perfectly postcard-quality beautiful. But Vernon was sweating a little and Mr. Grasshopper would have time later to be ashamed of himself for ruthlessly exploiting that fact.

“Yeah,” Vernon said. “Swelterin’.”

“I should not like to impede you in the pursuance of your business, of course,” Mr. Grasshopper said rapidly, “but perhaps you will take some refreshment? I find if much too hot for my tastes to remain outside. Will you come in?”

This got the redhead smiling, as he started to look more like his usually put together self. He adjusted his hat, and as he started to come towards the door, he replied.

“Don’t mind if I do.”

“Tea, water,” The white haired man listed as he found himself placing a hand on the lower region of the shorter man’s back, ushering him inside, “beer? I’m sure you still have some of your ale left from the last time you felt the need for them and brought them over.”

“Oh yeah?” Vern responded, as he made his way towards one of elegant cushioned chairs in the living room, “Sure, beer me. Uh, that is, I’ll have that please.”

Mr. Grasshopper was a little surprised by the gardener’s politeness; however, he chose not to address it. Much too giddy in his own fashion, the home owner chose to take the time to collect himself in the other room. ‘Breathe, man, remember to breathe. It’s only a polite visit-- just in the neighborhood he said. No use making something out of nothing.’ Feeling a little cooled by his own scolding, Theodore finished fetching the bottle before returning to the other room. He gracefully handed the drink to the other man.

The musician was convinced if it felt like their fingers caressed, and the touch last too long, that it was all from his own mind creating the illusion.

“Phew, yeah, thanks Hops.” Vern said with a crooked smirk, as he popped off the top and downed a hearty swig. “Ah, so needed that!”

Mr. Grasshopper attended the record player, pulling Scriabin off the plate and replacing it with whatever else he had lying around. As Debussy flowed through the air, he turned down the volume and settled back on the sofa, his teacup perched on his knee. “Of course. Not that beer shall do you much good, but remaining hydrated in this weather can be so trying.”

“Notice you ain’t doing yourself no favors drinking tea, Hops,” Vernon replied, taking a long drink of his beer.

Mr. Grasshopper decided he quite liked the way the other man slouched in one of his fine armchairs. He endeavored not to become distracted by this, instead sniffing rather delicately. “Be that as it may, tea cannot get one intoxicated,” he pointed out. “How many alcohol-fueled gardening catastrophes have there been in human history, I wonder.”

“Hell, that’s all part of the process!” Vern grinned. “Occupational hazard, that is.”

“I can scarcely imagine it is an outcome to be desired, however.”

“Well, all right. How ‘bout I just drink here and then I don’t do any gardening till I’m sober?” Vern suggested.

“Do you take my home for some mere den of intoxicated lollygagging, sir?”

“Eh, maybe not lollygagging, but intoxicating sounds about right.” Vern snickered and took another gulp of beer, the bottle already nearly empty. “And the service here is better’n any I know. You were the one to put it in my hands, Hops--y’ain’t nothing but a hustler.”

Mr. Grasshopper shook his head in amusement, lifting the china to his lips. He smirked into the drink as he sipped quietly. After setting the tea down on its proper resting place, the Englishman replied slowly-and perhaps more sultry than he had intended.

“Oh no, not I. Surely you are mistaken? I merely wish to please you as long as you are here, seeing as you are a guest in my home. If it’s intoxication that does it, then so be it.”

“Well,” the redhead countered, “I don’t exactly need ta be drunk around ‘ere to be enjoying myself. You seem to do jus’ fine.”

‘He was referring to your company, remember that Theodore.’ Thoughts turned to vocalizations, as the old man cleared his throat. “Ah, yes. I suppose I have some merits.”

“More than some, Hops. More than some.”

“What an extraordinarily kind sentiment,” Mr. Grasshopper murmured, tracing the lip of his teacup to ground himself. He did not see the way Vern’s eyes followed the motion of his hands and the way the gardener hastily lifted his drink to his mouth. “I thank you.”

“Ain’t nothing,” Vern replied, stretching out, crossing his legs at the ankles. “So how’s Mrs. Ladybug?”

“Oh, I imagine she’s quite well,” Mr. Grasshopper replied. “I’m afraid I haven’t seen her in some days.”

Vern’s expression was one Mr. Grasshopper could not positively identify, but it looked much more concerned than he thought the news warranted. Perhaps Vernon was fonder of Mrs. Ladybug than he’d realized. “Really? Thought you were livin’ in each other’s pockets.”

Mr. Grasshopper smiled slightly. “I suppose that is one way to describe our situation,” he admitted, “but...well, to be honest, she has been...indisposed.”

“She’s sick?”

“No.”

Vern gave him a befuddled look. “Kinda gotta ask you to speak English here, Hops, you’re losing me.”

Mr. Grasshopper sipped his tea again. “I’m sure it’s not my place to say very much,” he said, adjusting his necktie, “but perhaps we would not be wrong to say that in addition to her numerous charitable interests, Mrs. Ladybug has made a new friend.”

Vern frowned suddenly. “You’re saying she threw you over?”

“Good heavens, no,” he replied. “She has made a _friend_ , if you take my meaning,” he said, placing heavy emphasis on ‘friend.’

Vern looked at him for a second before grinning. “So, what, she’s banging the milk man?”

Mr. Grasshopper cleared his throat. “I should not say more.”

“So, wait, that’s what you call a booty call? ‘Making a friend’?”

“I certainly have no idea what you are referring to with that puerile expression, sir,” Mr. Grasshopper said, rolling his eyes slightly and feeling the hot flush of embarrassment rising on his throat. “But you have your answer. I propose you direct any further questions into the good lady’s health to her, as I cannot reply with adequately fresh information.”

The other man’s freckled face almost seemed to glow as he gave the first true laugh the gentleman had heard from his gardener since he appeared at his door. Vernon’s eyes twinkled as he replied.

“Okay, alright. No more talk of HER then. Though, I gotta say you got me curious- what about you?’

“I beg your pardon?”

Still smirking, the redhead made himself more comfortable as he leaned back against the cushioned chair. After adjusting his hat, he shrugged. “Oh, you know. Got any booty- I mean, ya got any of those, ah, heh, special friendships goin’ on? You know, making any acquaintances to keep you busy?”

While joking on the outside, Vernon couldn’t help but feel genuinely curious. Handsome guy like that? Ol’ Hops should have anyone he wanted. Sure, he knew he was-- what did James call it, “theater bent”?-- but surely a guy had needs. And as cold and collected as the gentleman came across, Mr. Grasshopper was as human as the rest of them came.

Mr. Centipede did his best to convince himself that his interest was for the sense of teasing, and not because he wanted to know if the guy was bangable.

Granted that was a hell of a lie, as bangability was definitely a consideration by this point, but Hops made it a little more plausible when he turned red so completely. Seeing how easy it was to make the old man get flustered didn’t do anything to make Vern not want to tease him.

“I...it...I am not blessed with the warmth of personality and the broad pool of resources enjoyed by Mrs. Ladybug to design such an assignation,” Mr. Grasshopper said stiltedly. “Not that it is really a topic for polite conversation,” he added rather more rapidly.

“Wait, so no?” Vern asked. “Shit, Hops, I would’ve thought you’d be beatin’ all sorts of music-lovers off with a stick! Gotta be some musicians who want to roger your hammerstein.”

Mr. Grasshopper shifted forward and poured himself another cup of tea. Damn the man’s taste for the indecorous...and damn the fact that he, himself, was rather starving for a little indiscreet behavior. He should turn the topic of conversation away--this was become much too close for comfort.

“Ah, I suppose I shall take that as a compliment, but no,” he said, carefully watching the rising line of tea in his cup. “Nor do I imagine it likely in the future--”

“So how long’s it been?”

Mr. Grasshopper looked up at him sharply. “Excuse me?”

“Y’know. How long?” Vernon asked with a devilish grin.

“You cannot really expect me to answer that, sir!” Mr. Grasshopper replied, aghast.

“Aw, come on, who’m I gonna tell?” Vern insisted. “Just curious, Hops, it’s already weird as hell t’hear you aren’t getting any...might as well lemme know since when! Call it a bonding experience.”

Mr. Grasshopper wasn’t certain what to make of the fact that Vernon apparently thought him something of a catch, but perhaps when one is quite virile and possessed of many prospects themselves, it was hard to imagine those who did without. Either way, it was becoming increasingly difficult to keep the necessary perspective to remain detached.

“It shall date me,” he said simply.

“Man, you’re shitting me. C’mon and tell me, Hops, you got me curious. Can’t let a guy dangle.”

Oh, if he could only work his will, dangling wouldn’t be any part of it. That extraordinarily filthy thought in mind, he mumbled the number of years into his teacup, disbelieving that he was being so unforgivably bold even as the words crossed his lips.

“I have gotta be hearing you wrong,” Vernon said, plainly astonished. “Did you say twenty years?”

Mr. Grasshopper cleared his throat. “Approximately,” he added in a low tone. “Perhaps more like twenty two.”

“Jesus Fucking Christ, Hops, you gotta be shitting me! How haven’t you exploded yet?” Vern exclaimed. “No wonder you’re so stiff, man! I’d’a burst into flames years ago!”

Mr. Grasshopper couldn’t help but smile. “I admit that there were some occasions when I felt inclined in such a direction,” he admitted. “But...yes, I would say it’s been about twenty two years since I took a lover.” He thought about that for a moment. “I suppose that is rather pathetic,” he agreed distantly, expressing it as the matter-of-fact that it was.

The gardener took another swig of his drink, leaving about a third of the beer left. He frowned as he found himself staring at it, so as not to look at his boss. Vernon was finding it hard to concentrate whenever his eyes locked onto the man across from him.

“’Pathetic?’” Vern quoted, “ Ain’t really somethin’ I’d say about it. More like it’s a damn shame, really. Almost an injustice, I might even call it. “

“Oh? I can’t even begin to fathom the meaning you could possibly possess behind your phrasings, Vernon.”

The redhead found himself hiding behind his hat a little more, as he let the way his name was uttered wash over him. Damn. That voice of Hops…Just. DAMN.

Centipede peeked out from under his hat to see the olive-toned man was swishing around his cup of tea, head tilted as if it was the most fascinating thing in the world. (Though, Vern could swear every now and again he saw chocolate eyes looking up and glancing at him.)

“Well, “ The shorter man began, “I jus’ mean what I said. I mean, I don’t see WHY you don’t have people lining up at your door, banging n’ tryin’ t’get in. I mean, heck, if I was them I’D do ya.”

Mr. Grasshopper sat very still and stared at him. Vern burned under his hat. After a few eons, Mr. Grasshopper said, “If you were them?”

“Yeah.”

“If you were one of the hypothetical persons who would be interested in pursuing sexual congress with me?”

“Yeah.”

“If you were one of those interested persons, you would...?”

“Do ya,” Vern said in an agony of awkwardness. “Yeah.” Would the old man just kick him out already? Waiting was too much to handle!

If, Mr. Grasshopper thought desperately. If, if, if. If Mr. Centipede had been the sort of person to find him sexually attractive, then he’d be the sort of person to find him sexually attractive--the statement made no sense, too absurdly tautological, utterly devoid of meaning.

‘How kind,’ he thought he might say, a meaningless placeholder to stall the chaotic fumbling of his mind. ‘Such a polite sentiment,’ he might also say, desperate for anything to reject what could not possibly be happening. Because Vernon was being kind, because a twenty-year dry spell was borderline tragic and he was evoking in Vernon the experience of self-pity transferred onto an external entity, because what else could be said in such a situation but a cold and insincere expression of hypothetical solace?

He must not respond. He was much too attached to Vernon already, too invested and too much in love, to throw himself with the greatest imaginable willingness at this man’s feet for something that he would no doubt describe as a ‘bang.’

He very carefully put his teacup on the coffee table and cleared his throat.

“If you were one of those interested people, Vernon,” he said, his voice suddenly and unaccountably husky, “I do not think either man or God could induce me to turn you away, as I find such a situation dearly to be desired and so I would pray you by all means to pursue your interest to its furthest extent.” He paused. “Please,” he added, somewhat desperately, the single syllable causing him to flush all over again with shame at his own eagerness.


	9. The Crescendo

Silence hung in the air between them; the tension was thick enough to cut with a butter knife, and spread on toast. Vernon gulped down the remainder of his beer, before deciding to place it on the end table next to him. He did, however, correct himself mid-action, as the gardener’s gaze found the little coasters that the home owner kept in every room. Vern smiled fondly, as he let the empty bottle rest.

Warm smiles were quick to turn to glares, as the sunburnt man’s focus returned to the white haired gentleman across from him. Mr. Grasshopper seemed to fidget some under the gaze, and was about to open his mouth to say something, when Vern beat him to it.

“Alright.”

This just left the older man terribly and utterly confused.

“I…’All right?’”

“Yep.”

Mr. Grasshopper was about to ask him to explain himself- because heaven knew there needed to be one!- however, his attention was quick to be distracted as Mr. Centipede made his way out of his seat, and over to the musician.

“Mr. Cen-Vernon, what in the blazes are you doing?”

Still glaring, the fiery-haired man bent over and, still not saying a word, took the fine china out of its owner’s hands. Placing, it too, onto the table before bending over so he was at eye level with his boss. Green eyes were met by brown, and still Mr. Centipede’s stare did not lessen.

“Now see here, “ Theodore Grasshopper said, starting to get insulted- as well as worried that he may have gone too far with his earlier utterances. Finding himself beginning to glare back, the older man began again. “Now see HERE, I am inquiring, Mr. Centipede, what do you think you have the gall to be trying?”

“This.”

Before the man could insist, again, on an explanation, Mr. Grasshopper found himself answered by the shorter man swiftly grabbing at his tie, and jerking the gentleman towards him. Eyes were shot open, yet again, as rougher lips were crashed into his own.

It was appalling, Mr. Grasshopper thought, the way this man toyed with him. It was nothing short of cruel! He’d been in an agony of dread that this conversation could turn violent, especially in view of that horrid glare the man had given him.

And now, here he was, held in place by his tie, subjected to a kiss that was much too rough, the hard pressure of teeth too evident, Vernon’s nose bumping his cheekbone, the taste of beer still on the man’s chapped, insistent, soft, plump, scorching lips...

His eyes drifted shut. Mr. Grasshopper lifted a hand and cupped the back of Vernon’s head, gaining a little leverage to shift and find a more comfortable angle. Oh, he hadn’t been kissed in what felt like a hundred years and Vernon made for such a lovely partner for this, his hot mouth insistently meshing with Theodore’s, gently tugging and rubbing their lips together in a way that made something electric zip down the taller man’s spine and settle south of his equator.

Mr. Grasshopper felt the grip on his tie slacken and only had an instant to be disappointed before both hands appeared cupping his head, pulling him close and holding him tightly against Mr. Centipede’s kiss. All in approval for the delicious novelty of being held close, he responded in kind, spearing his fingers in his gardener’s lush red hair and wrapping his spare hand around one of the man’s suspenders, tugging him nearer.

One hand knocked the man’s hat away and Mr. Grasshopper terminated the kiss as he felt Mr. Centipede wobble a little, leaning too far over the coffee table. Breathless, he pried his hands away from the other man and held them together to keep from shaking, sitting back and staring at the gardener.

“Good heavens,” he said quietly.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Vern replied. He grinned a reckless grin and started around the coffee table.

“Before we get ahead of ourselves,” Mr. Grasshopper said hastily, “I only want to be certain that we’re q-quite clear where we stand!”

“I figure any stretch of wall will be fine for standing, if that’s how you like it,” Vern replied, standing in front of Mr. Grasshopper. He placed both hands on Theodore’s knees and guided them apart, slipping between them and leaning down again, taking his tie in hand.

“Oh, good God,” Mr. Grasshopper gasped, legs unaccountably trembling as he was pulled close again. “Oh dear--I--Vernon, I don’t think you realize--”

“Damn, you talk so much,” Vern commented, smirking. “Hope you’re this loud in bed, too.”

Mr. Grasshopper had to refrain from whining as Vernon’s spare hand slid heavily up his thigh. At a loss for what to do with his own hands, he dug his fingers into the upholstery of the sofa. “I--I--I only mean to warn you that I will not be able to restrain myself if you insist upon this kind of illicit behavior--”

“Thank fuckin’ God,” Vern grumbled, and kissed him again.

Mr. Grasshopper felt a moan erupt from the depths of his chest as Vernon’s hot tongue brushed softly against his lips. He grabbed the man by the suspenders and hauled him close, splaying his hands across his back and in his hair, delighting in the experience of touch and the sumptuous heat of the man’s skin and breath.

It was Vernon’s turn to feel breathless as he felt the man against him erupt with a passion he hadn’t even known he had. The gardener couldn’t help but smirk into the kiss, as he felt his nether regions crash into his boss. Centipede gave an experimental thrust of his hips, enjoying the rush it gave him as the taller man trembled. Vernon tried it again, as he growled into the musician’s mouth. Rough hands that were once trailing up long thighs, had found themselves traversing higher, until he was fumbling with the buttons on the gentleman’s wisteria colored suit.

“Fuckin’ layers,” he bemoaned as their lips parted for much needed air, and as the redhead continued to struggle. All Vern wanted to do was rip, bite, and claw away at the clothes, until they were shredded away and nothing was left but flesh for him to taste.

Giving up, and much too into his own passions, the gardener used his strength to rip open the top, the last two buttons flying across the room. Tie was soon to follow, as the redhead undid the knot and chucked it over his shoulder. And then a beloved olive-toned neck was exposed to the elements, and more importantly, to Mr. Centipede.

Vernon lunged forward as lips kissed and suckled the man’s neck and jaw. He felt a speedy pulse against his mouth, as nimble and skilled fingers dug into his red hair. Vern moaned again as another hand slid down his back, sending a charge up his spine, and heat to his gut.

“Vernon,” Mr. Grasshopper gasped, hands tightening their grip as the other man worried a throbbing pulse point with his teeth, an edge of danger in it that made him dizzy. He could feel Vern’s grin against his skin and it sent an almighty shudder through him.

“You like that?” Vern teased, hands getting a good grip on Grasshopper’s ass and squeezing. He kissed his mouth again, wanting to dive back down and attack that bared skin again. Damn, he couldn’t get over how the old man just melted against him, trembling and over-excited and spread out for him. Who knew Hops liked to have a guy take care of him?

The world tilted dizzily and Vern suddenly found himself planted on his back on the sofa. For half a second he had the crazy but not unfounded thought that Hops was going to bitch at him for treating his suit roughly.

Instead, the old man took his monocle off and detached it from his suit, tossing it carelessly in the direction of the coffee table. He flashed Vern about the filthiest grin he’d ever seen in his life, before diving down to put his tongue in Vern’s mouth, hands sliding and fondling and groping every bit of him they could reach. Vern grunted as Grasshopper dominated his mouth, perfect brutal devastating skill leaving him groaning aloud.

Still kissing him, Mr. Grasshopper struggled gracelessly out of his jacket and threw it across the room, down to his shirtsleeves and gaping waistcoat, his long neck and the top of his chest bare and flushing.

Grasshopper pulled away first, and nuzzled his jaw briefly before nimbly snapping his suspenders from their grip on Vern’s pants, yanking his shirt out of his waistband. Grasshopper sat up and took hold of the panels of Vern’s shirt, the old man’s slender, clever hips rutting briefly against his own.

In a single motion, Grasshopper tore the shirt open, startling Vern as buttons popped off, disappearing all over the living room. Hell, he expected to give that kind of treatment, not get it from a guy who probably pressed his own drawers!

“What the hell?” Vern said, the last syllable lost in a very excited noise as Grasshopper went to work on his fly with those talented fingers of his, even as he ran a line of hot, sucking, hungry kisses down Vern’s neck, chest, and belly. “Oh, Jesus Christ, Hops, what the fuck are you--”

“I rather like that filthy mouth of yours,” the old man purred in a voice that just fucking unfair, because how was he supposed to keep up with that? “Don’t stop talking, Vernon.”

“Shit.” The sunburnt man couldn’t help but say, as that voice sent sensation straight to his privates. Vern shuddered and cried out in need, as digits finished undoing his pants, and exposing more of his arousal through thin cloth. Vernon swore again as those hands, that he had witnessed caressing bows and stroking keys, were now playing him. A palm kneaded his aching flesh, throwing the ginger’s head back. “God DAMN, Hops!”

White coarse whiskers over soft lips traveled up and down the muscled toned body of the gardener. Sometimes tasting the sweat in the crevice of the shorter man’s neck, other times following the freckled path down Vern’s chest to his slightly protruding abdomen. All the while, those damn hands persisted with massaging his ample member.

Vernon found himself getting lost to the man above him, even while another part of his mind screamed for dominance. But how the fuck was he supposed to concentrate, when the boss he had found himself fantasizing about was touching him in a way that sent his body ablaze? Do explain to him how he was supposed to do or think of anything, while he felt his brain fog and his blood rush to his arousal. Thinking? That wasn’t needed, after all, and especially when not so idle hands were devilishly trying to slip under the elastic band of his briefs.

Vern swore again as he growled in frustration.

“Goddammit! You don’t give a guy a fuckin’ chance, do ya? Shit!”

His only response was a low, warm chuckle and Vern could only barely keep from kicking his hips up as Grasshopper’s head dipped even lower, that long, straight nose of his nuzzling against the bulge in Vern’s briefs. “Fuck!”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Mr. Grasshopper sighed, licking the fabric shamelessly before sliding back up, hungry hands and mouth devouring as much of Vern as they could.

The gardener fisted one hand in his boss’ hair and reached around to slap him on the ass with the other, getting a good handful and groping him. He grinned as Grasshopper’s hips bucked and he gasped softly.

“Jesus, you’re gonna work me like a fucking dog,” Vern growled, biting that long neck again as his hands finally got at that nice hard lump in his boss’ suit pants. “Oh yeah, that’s what I like to see...you’re hard as a fuckin’ rock, aren’t ya?” He grinned as Grasshopper began to pant, hips rolling mindlessly against Vern’s hand as he groped the hot bulge. “Yeah, that’s right--so prim and proper all the fucking time but all you want is just someone to fuck those smart brains of yours right outta your ears, don’t’cha?”

“Oh,” Mr. Grasshopper whispered. He hadn’t expected to like hearing Vernon talk to him that way, but he certainly did. He felt himself pulse hard in his trousers, adoring the way his gardener fondled him through his clothing. He wanted Vernon’s hands all over him, touching exactly this way, leaving bruises if he had to. He hadn’t been touched in so long, and his skin screamed for more of those brilliant hands rubbing and touching and gripping him.

Mr. Grasshopper swallowed audibly, giving Vern another deep, hungry kiss before sliding back down his body, hands trailing behind his mouth as he went. They darted further down, pulling down his pants and briefs. Vern groaned aloud as he felt his prick pop free, already hard, and brush against Grasshopper’s cheek. “Oh, fuck, fuck it, Jesus--”

Grasshopper’s hands settled on Vern’s hips, pinning him to the sofa. Vern couldn’t stop a loud shout as the old man’s mustache brushed his hot skin and soft lips and a wet tongue began to trace his shaft.

Mr. Grasshopper just hummed blissfully, even sighing as he began to work on Vernon’s hot, fat prick. The last time he’d enjoyed this didn’t bear thinking about. He had a man mostly naked on his sofa for the first time in years--forget working Vernon like a dog. He was going to leave him boneless.

He guided Vernon into his mouth with a rather rapid movement, moaning himself to taste and feel another man again after so horribly, unbearably long. He’d missed this, filthy shameless dirty thing that it was, and it sent another spike of raw hunger through him. He needed to be fucked. He needed to be kissed and sucked and touched and fondled and handled in every single part of his aching, desperate body and he needed to be fucked until he couldn’t breathe or remember his own name.

He whimpered softly.

“Oh, shit yeah,” Vern hissed, tightening his hand in Grasshopper’s hair, trying not to push down. He shoved himself up on his spare arm, wanting to watch the way the old man did it. Grasshopper looked up at him with those big, dark, gorgeous eyes, bright and desperate and hungry, before they dropped down and slid closed, the musician’s focus on the hot prick he was taking into his mouth.

“Fuck, twenty goddamn years and now you’re just starvin’ for dick, aren’t ya?” Vern growled, panting like a mutt as Grasshopper licked and sucked him like he loved it. “Oh, you’re going to fucking get it, Hops, just what you want, I’m going to fuck you blind, I’m gonna pound that tight ass of yours until you fucking beg me to make you come...Jesus, where the fuck did you learn to suck like that, shit--” He groaned deeply as the old man took him deeper, cheeks hollowing as he sucked, handsome face never more attractive than it was when it was between Vern’s legs. “Aw, you’re fucking gorgeous, too, ain’t fair, Hops, don’t even know how sexy you are, even dreamed about ya, ya skinny old bastard, ya just make me wanna fuck and fuck and fuck--”

Theodore Grasshopper moaned, very much encouraged by the younger man’s obscenity and taste. His purr sent mouthwatering vibrations up the gardener’s cock, causing Vern to buck a little as he swore again.

“Ah! Oh- oh God, fuuu- YES!” He panted, feeling his member twitch some in that deliciously warm and moist orifice. “Hop…Shit! Hops…”

Vern had the man’s nickname leave his mouth in a long hiss, turning into a gasp as he sucked in air from his teeth. And then the musician’s long and slippery tongue unwrapped itself from around his shaft, probing and flicking about under the sensitive foreskin instead. The hand latched onto the white tuft on the back of the older man’s head gripped tighter, as the gardener whined in pleasure.

“Oh, I, oh FUCK that’s some good stuff! Shit, what the HELL do you usually use that tongue for? FUCK- jus’, ah, GOD DAMN! That’s practically professional!”

A part of Grasshopper mused over the implications of being a professional of anything relating to the field of sexual pleasure, wondering just what sort of life the man had assumed he had before his twenty some odd year long hiatus. However, the notion soon vanished- after giving a few more flicks, before the gentleman’s tongue retreated and he went back to hungrily sucking the wide girth of flesh.

The sudden change of tactic was enough to get the younger man going with his profanity, once more.

“Shit! Ya little thirsty cock sucker!” Vern gave a deep laugh, one that seemed to come from his very gut in a rumble. “Oh man, you drive a guy nuts around here! Jus’, ugh, ya know how to get a guy’s rocks off!” The red head found himself glaring as his boss removed his wonderful mouth from his privates, to blow cool air upon it- sending a heavenly sting to the wet throbbing member.

“Ya old fidgety bastard! That’s just plain evil!”

“Hm,” Mr. Grasshopper murmured. He shifted away from Vern’s lap and pressed their mouths together, smiling beatifically into the kiss. “Shall we retire to the bedroom?” the old man breathed against his mouth.

Vern grabbed Grasshopper’s hips and dragged him close, grinding his slick cock against the other man’s damnably still-clothed erection. Hips in place, he dragged Grasshopper’s shirt out of his waistband and stuffed his hands under his undershirt, amazed by how hot and smooth the old man’s flesh was. He took control of the kiss, grinning to feel how Hops just melted for it and hearing the way he whined so soft and sweet--he tugged the other man’s lower lip between his teeth, sucking gently before releasing it with a soft pop. “Fuck that,” Vern growled. “You fuckin’ started this, you better finish it--”

“I shall,” Mr. Grasshopper promised, a little out of breath. “But I don’t intend to do so until we are properly experiencing intercourse.”

“‘Properly’? Fuck ‘properly’!” Vern countered, scratching down the old man’s back, astonished by the way Hops could bend and melt and sigh with just a little contact. “I’m going to bend you over this couch and fuck you until you come all over your prissy goddamn proper upholstery!”

“Good heavens,” Mr. Grasshopper breathed, shuddering as Vernon’s hands went to work on his fly. “I...I certainly...”

Vern fondled the bulge in Grasshopper’s pants roughly. “I bet you’d like that, wouldn’t ya?” he asked, grinning to see how the old man’s breathing hitched and speed up as he talked. Looked like the old man wasn’t kidding about liking a dirty mouth! “Bet you’d let me shove ya down and stick it in ya anyway I wanted, if it meant you’d get a nice thick cock to ride.”

Mr. Grasshopper hissed softly, pushing Vernon back down on the sofa and straddling him, kissing his mouth with a burst of shameless hunger, grinding with blind lust against his gardener’s hard prick. When he had wit enough to pull away, he lightly nipped Vern’s earlobe and let his hands wander across the prone figure of his new lover.

“You would lose that bet,” he breathed. “I’m much more likely to pin you down and ride your ‘thick cock’ exactly how I please.” He kissed Vern’s neck, fingers teasingly flicking the younger man’s nipples, mouth smirking as the redhead could not restrain an obviously unanticipated little ‘nnngh’ sound. “I want to go upstairs, Vernon, because that is where the lubricant is and by the time I’m done with you, you’ll be in serious danger of chafing,” Mr. Grasshopper promised.

“F-Fine,” Vern groused. “Then lemme up.”

Mr. Grasshopper took the opportunity to kiss him again, before backing off and smoothing back his hair. He glanced at the man’s lap. “Would you mind putting that away for the walk upstairs?” he asked, affecting a slightly admonishing tone though he did not seem capable of taking his eyes away from the evidence of his gardener’s attraction to him.

“You pulled it out--you’re gonna make it settle down again,” Vern replied, a not unreasonable assertion. “Now get your ass upstairs and we’ll see who’s planting who.”

Mr. Grasshopper grinned, walking with rather more sway than normal towards the stairs and hearing the heavy tread of his gardener following him. He locked his front door on the way and led the way up the stairs.

 He’s almost reached his bedroom when he felt Vernon’s hands on his waist and found himself abruptly shoved against the wall.

“Good God, man!” he exclaimed, fumbling stupidly for his long-abandoned eyeglass as Vern dropped to his knees. “What on earth are you--”

“Don’t ask stupid questions,” Vern replied, ripping open his fly. “Turnabout’s fair play.”

Before Theodore Grasshopper could come up with any proper protests, his chocolate eyes longingly looking to his bedroom door, his beloved gardener had undone his pants and exposed his neatly trimmed nether regions. The home owner’s gaze snapped back down, when he heard Vernon give a whistle of approval.

“Damn, Hops, you weren’t kidding when ya said you knew how t’ properly handle large things, huh? Just as long as the rest of ya!”

“I, that, is, I do not partake in any fallacious boasting unless I have something to back up my words.”

“I can see that, “ Mr. Centipede chuckled heartedly, before taking his mouth to the head of the lanky man’s penis. Vern wasn’t new at giving head, either. In fact, while he’d admit to the appreciation of a curvy form far more often than anything else, who was the ginger to turn down a nice piece of sex appeal, even if it was a man? And as his tastes had showed him, he just had standards to what he enjoyed.

Standards that the man in his mouth went up and above and met many times over-- God DAMN.

The sunburnt man began to bob his head up and down, enjoying the feel of the gentleman’s long rigid shaft hitting and rubbing against the roof of his mouth and the back of his throat. He moaned as he sucked hungrily, savoring the pungent taste of his boss. His eyes had long since closed, as he lost himself to his oral pleasure. It was like taking a big cigar in-between his lips-- sucking in what was so delicious and intoxicating, that it just HAD to be bad for you.

But if anything could be said about Vernon Centipede, let it be known he was a man who took delight in misbehaving.

Even allowing for the fact that he’d been out of the game for some time and it was conceivable that he was misremembering, Theodore Grasshopper was willing to wager that whatever he’d had in the way of oral sex had rarely, if ever, been quite this good.

In this, as in all things, Vernon didn’t hesitate or waste his time--the speed with which he’d gone to work was enough to make Mr. Grasshopper cry out, let alone the considerable skill he demonstrated. Mr. Grasshopper’s hands tremblingly slid into his red hair, desperate not to choke his partner, as much out of concern for him as for the dread that he would stop.

He should never, ever stop.

Vernon’s little noises were inexpressibly delicious, deep moans and wet sucking sounds mere kindling to the raging flame of physical sensation. His mouth was so deep, so hot and wet, and the way the man moved and sucked and licked him had Theodore shaking so hard he truly thought his legs would give out.

He knew himself already conquered, heart and mind and body, blissfully and insanely happy with the mere knowledge that Vernon desired him, let alone the exquisite sensation of feeling it, experiencing his partner demonstrating that desire. He was incapable of articulate speech, brought low to desperate, whimpering little pseudo-syllables as Vernon laid him to waste against the hallway wall. Where had his intellect gone? It must be banished by the overwhelming surge of Vernon’s unutterably wonderful lust and he madly hoped that it would not return--let him remain the trembling, mindless animal to which the dear creature between his legs had reduced him with nothing but his mouth, his hands, and the blatant evidence of his carnal appetite for him.

It had been so long, and Vernon was so good, and he’d forgotten entirely what it was to be wanted with such intensity and immediacy. He could feel words of love threatening to spill over his lips, or at least mewling fragments of them, and he shuddered deeply, swallowing them down to mingle with the low, heavy liquid heat that coiled and pooled in his belly.

“Oh dear God,” he whispered, voice ragged and broken into shards, hands combing through his hair, desperate to touch him, “oh, Vernon, oh my DEAR God, oh yes, yes, please, oh you beast, you p-perfect beast--”

He gasped much too loudly as he felt one of Vernon’s wicked, brilliant hands sliding between his legs, and his trembling increased to the point that the structural integrity of their position might have started to be a concern if he could give a single fuck about it.

And right when Mr. Grasshopper thought he was close to his climax, the redhead pulled away just as fast as he had started. The lankier man felt his legs shaking-- threatening to send him tumbling if he didn’t get a hold of his wit-- as the coolness of the air touched his manhood. Looking down the white haired fox saw his own juices all over his gardener’s pale glistening lips. Vern gave a cheeky grin as he wiped off the pre-cum with the back of his hand and arm.

“Now we’re even, “ Vernon’s green eyes sparkled with mischief, as he got up from his knees. Seeing as the home owner was still trying to collect himself, the gardener threw him a wink before heading towards the bedroom door. “Come on, old man, I wanna see ya keep that ‘chafing’ threat o’ yours.”

Vern sauntered into the old man’s bedroom with a wild, secret grin, unable to contain his glee. Vern had always liked a responsive partner--he liked knowing that he was doing a good job at scratching all their itches--but he’d never put much thought into how much he’d like taking Hops apart against a wall. The way he’d shuddered and pet his hair and all the little noises he let out made Vern glad he didn’t bother tucking himself in. He only throbbed harder now, knowing what sexy little unrestrained things Hops did when he got blown.

That was the name of the game, now--break down those cool, composed walls of restraint Hops surrounded himself with and have him flat on his back, open and desperate and debauched. Vern was going to crack that composure if it killed him.

He heard the old guy stumble a little in the hall and grinned broadly. Shit, this guy was bad for his ego--a little blowie and he can’t stand? Oh, he was going to have fun with this game.

Vern took the opportunity to toss himself on the bed, propping his head up with one arm and grinning broadly. The four-poster bed wasn’t so much big as it was long--of course, Hops would need an extra-long bed, fuckin’ beanstalk that he was--but it was still plenty wide for two. The room was kind of ritzy, which was pretty much par for the course because Vern was certain that Hops was allergic to all things casual. It was a cool, tall room, masculine, full of dark, quietly rich furniture.

Mr. Grasshopper did not take very long to collect himself, but by the time he followed his gardener into his bedroom, he found quite a lovely scene awaiting him. How could he never have considered how perfect Vernon Centipede would look in his bed, giving him that silly, sly grin? He absolutely tied the room together. In the interests of good interior design, he must remain there for some while.

Unfortunate, his clothes clashed with the bedspread. But they could be so easily done away with, Mr. Grasshopper reflected.

He felt more than saw Vernon’s eyes flick over him, but the annoyed expression caught his eye immediately. “Undoin’ all my hard work, Hops!”

Mr. Grasshopper realized that he must be referring to the fact that he had tidied himself up a bit and closed his trousers. It was an uncomfortable thing, but it had been too embarrassing to bear, otherwise. “I am not in the habit of walking about with my privates exposed,” he said, closing the bedroom door.

“It was six steps!”

“Six steps too many.”

Something steely, determined, and bright hot flashed in Vernon’s green eyes and Mr. Grasshopper had an instant to wonder what that was about. Vernon looked on him like a particularly interesting challenge and Mr. Grasshopper offered a brief, silent prayer that he would meet whatever standards kept Vernon engaged.

However, as much as Theodore wanted to just tackle the man on his embroidered sea green bedding, there was something else far more important that needed to be addressed. So knowing full well those luscious dark green eyes were on his person, the lanky man walked around to his left side of his bed where his…personal items were stored. With as much grace and maneuverability as his uncomfortable erection would allow, the white haired man bent over his nightstand and retrieved his silicone lubricant from its hiding place. Mr. Grasshopper’s whiskers twitched in a smile, as he remembered that his ordering of the personal item had been an accursed temptation he had felt much guilt about. In the year or so of having this damned attraction to his gardener, he had found himself giving in a few times to his desires.

And yet, here he was, actually going to have a use for it besides touching himself out of shame! Seize the day!

Mr. Grasshopper’s happiness turned to nervousness as he looked over towards his first lover in over twenty years. “Oh, um, Vernon.” He paused, not quite knowing how to ask his next question. “I trust you don’t…I mean, that is, you won’t be needing, ah, condoms for health reasons?”

“Are ya asking if I’m clean, Hops?”

“Well, in a sense. I just don’t have the needed materials. I haven’t had…I wasn’t expecting this. I must confess I am not prepared for this situation. And it’s only out of luck that I happen to have lubrication at all.” Chocolate eyes looked into dark pools of green, full of warmth and trepidations. “However, I trust you full heartedly. If you were to say you are disease free, I will not-“

“Hops,” Vernon interrupted the older man’s ramblings, relieving him of his embarrassment. “I ain’t got no aids or anything. Healthy as an ox or whatever sayin’ means ‘healthy enough to bone’. “

That was all Theodore needed to hear before attacking the man with hungry kisses once more.

He kicked off his shoes, hearing them fall against the floor somewhere outside the immediate limits of Vernon’s body, the extent of which he would admit had captured his entire attention. What perfect joy, to kiss a willing, hungry partner! What sweet delight, to have a warm and ardent mouth against his own, hard hands in his hair, a body against him that wanted him, wanted to please him, wanted to find its pleasure in him.

It was so good to be away from the relatively cramped sofa, not only because he was already quite certain he could never again sit on it without flushing from the marvelous remembrance of what it felt like to have Vernon’s prick down his throat. Here, on a proper bed, he could stretch out a little, enjoy the feeling of Vernon’s hands sliding under his waistcoat as they kissed, hips not so much rocking as rolling slowly against each other.

“Would ya please fuckin’ get naked?” Vernon grumbled, struggling out of his own shirt and tossing it away, and Theodore had to laugh, partly from his partner’s frustration and partly from the sheer thrill of having someone who wanted to see him undressed.

He slipped his hands into Vernon’s trousers, pausing for a moment to adore the perfect press of hipbones against his palms and the absolutely sublime warmth of his thighs as Theodore pushed his trousers away. Caught adoring the delphinic buck of Vernon’s hips, he pushed the trousers away as far as he could before he realized the inevitable.

“Are you wearing shoes on my bed?” he asked, appalled at the thought of muddy work boots ruining his linens.

“Fuck, you’re kidding me,” Vernon groused. “Pop the buttons on your suit and you don’t give a shit, but shoes on the bed?”

“I can always repair a button,” Mr. Grasshopper countered, noticeably not pausing in the slow, steady motions that constituted the slide and mesh of their hips. “But this...”

Vern growled and shoved his waistcoat abruptly off of his shoulders. “What the fuck part of ‘get naked’ didn’t make sense?” he asked, hands sliding down to Theodore’s flies.

He canted his hips up to let Vernon have his way, finding his breath stolen away as his lover hastily began to pump his cock again with all the deliciously rough attention he could wish for. The trousers went over the curve of his ass and took his undergarments with them, with a clever hook of Vernon’s thumbs. He hastily undid the buttons of his shirt and shrugged it off as Vernon saw to his trousers. He pulled his undershirt off and sat straddling a man for the first time in quite a few years, functionally naked.

He took a moment to appreciate Vernon, hands tracing his form even as his eyes took covetous, delighted stock of the man beneath him. Vernon was indeed a natural redhead, wiry and tight muscles in his back and arms deceptively strong. His middle section hosted a slight pudge that had everything to do with health and a vigorous, hard-eating, hard-drinking life lived on his own terms and to incredible satisfaction and that spoke nothing of sloth or self-absorption. Theodore wanted to press his face against that lovely, plush curve, adoring the evidence of earthly pleasure, especially when compared with his own cold, skeletal figure.

Seeing the pleased yet ravenous expression on his lover- Vern’s wandering eyes traveling up and down the Englishman’s frame-- sending a surge of rushing heat to Theodore’s genitalia and a flutter to his heart. Rough sunburnt palms slid and touched Mr. Grasshopper’s thin but long outer thighs. It was then that the older man recalled the lube in his hand. Taking one of those coarse hands, Grasshopper handed over the tube.

“If you wouldn’t mind,” Grasshopper said, leaning in for a purr, “would you, Vernon, do me the honor of assisting me in application and preparations?”

Before the older man could even finish the question, he was shoved into his mattress, back flat, as he was dragged and his legs spread. Vernon growled as he made himself more comfortable, and undid the cap, setting it to the side. The red head squeezed a good glob of the stuff onto his hands, taking time to lube his two meaty fingers.

Mr. Centipede, after feeling sufficient with his ministrations, put his gaze on the part of his older lover’s body he had not yet seen or admired properly. He eyed the puckered hole, unable to help but be reminded of his throbbing erection.

‘Hold on, boy. Hold on. Gotta prepare Hops first. Soon- hold your studly horses!’

After willing himself to calm down, promising pleasures to come, Vernon’s fingers traveled the remaining distance. The tip of his pointer finger began to penetrate his boss’ entrance. He twisted the finger, making sure Theodore had enough of the velvety substance at the puckered end, before pressing on. Literally. Vern’s mouth began to water, his member twitching, as Mr. Grasshopper gasped.

“Shit, Hops, you’re tight in all the right places!” The other hand grabbing onto a long leg, for support, Vern leaned closer as he thrust his finger in and out of the man. Hops clenched over his digit as he experimentally circled just the littlest of bits. “Fuck! You like that, huh? Good, ‘cause prepare y’self, when I’m done with y’ass you ain’t gonna be walking straight for a the next goddamn week.”

Mr. Grasshopper swallowed thickly, hands sliding up and down Vernon’s back and petting his hair. He had to exercise considerable willpower not to squirm or buck against the finger and to keep himself from interrupting Vernon by dragging his mouth down for another kiss.

It was embarrassing, how good it felt just to have something inside him after much too long--it didn’t fill him the way he wanted, of course, but it was a suitably marvelous prelude that he found himself without complaint. He knew he’d be tight, but Vernon appeared to know what he was doing and he only felt a keen and razor-sharp urge to have Vernon properly inside him, impatient to dispense with such preparations.

He shuddered, watching with glazed eyes as the redhead worked his fingers in and out of him, a wonderful expression of lascivious concentration on his face and the hard, red evidence of his arousal standing up from his hips.

“I’ll hold you to that,” Theodore murmured, his mouth feeling oddly thick. He knew his voice must sound wrecked, but with such an appreciative audience to hear it, he couldn’t quite bring himself to care and clear his throat.

Vern gave him a challenging grin, loving how Mr. Grasshopper was starting to lose it. He liked the throaty little tone in the man’s voice and he sure as hell loved the way he couldn’t quite keep still.

It was just...damn. Getting to see Hops like this was incredible. He barely ever saw so much of an inch of the guy under those uptight suits of his, and now, getting to see all of it, getting to touch it, knowing he was going to be inside him in just a little while only made him burn hotter. He felt himself growl in the back of his throat, leaning down for another kiss as he carefully pushed a second finger into the man beneath him and got to taste the little noise Hops made.

“Yeah, you really like that, don’t ya?” Vern smirked, listening to the way Grasshopper’s breathing sped up and how the wet, squishy noises of his fingers seemed to make the man squirm. “All uptight and prim and good all the time, but put something in you and ya just fuckin’ lose it. I gotta say, I kinda like this look for ya.”

Mr. Grasshopper pulled together enough wit to frown, even though he had to restrain a deep groan as Vern scissored his fingers. “I h-hardly think that--!”

His words were lost in a desperate noise of panicked pleasure so sudden that it sought to drag his heart out of his mouth. Vernon’s fingers rubbed firmly against his prostate, once, twice, again, enough that he lost count and had to tighten his grip on his gardener, shaking violently and just trying not to reach orgasm prematurely. “Oh, Christ! You’ll make me--!”

“No you won’t!” Vernon uttered in a throaty rumble, pulling back his fingers in a snappy motion-- denying the man under him of his climax. He leaned back, smirking as he took in the violent blush and panting of his ardent Englishman. “We ain’t even CLOSE to being done for ya t’ be spoilin’ the fun.”

Not waiting for a reply, the ginger took the navy blue tube in his hand and squeezed out enough lube to lather twice as much area than he actually needed. Vern then went to coating his large girth. In all honesty, he didn’t really need to take the precaution. The gardener had done more than a sufficient job lathering the inside of his lover. But, if the shorter man was going around telling truths, he would also admit that he was taking some time for ol’ Hops to calm down some. Last thing he wanted was to finally get to fuck the guy, only for him to spill his load the moment he pressed his head to his ass. That was NOT how this was going to go down, if Vernon had any say in it.

‘Though,’ a foggy part of his brain said, as he wanked off and lathered his member, ‘ Hops’ excitement knows how to swell my pride! And stroke…” He grinned at his own internal joke. Feeling himself fully coated, and the other man seemingly cooled just enough, Vernon crawled in closer. “Now get ready to fuckin’ scream!”

Theodore was more than ready--Vernon could have no notion of precisely how ready, in fact.

His legs were already loosely circling the other man’s waist, so Mr. Grasshopper only had to tighten his grip and he had Vernon ensnared. With a soft noise of exertion, he flipped them over, planting his hands on the bed to support his own weight as he pushed Vernon onto his back. Vernon went down with a deep grunt, more of the likes of which Mr. Grasshopper decided he very much wanted to elicit.

“Likewise,” he said, and guided Vernon’s tip to his hole. He closed his eyes, focusing on the sensation as he carefully relaxed and slowly sank down on the hard shaft. “Oh, fuck yes...”

“Sh-shit, Hops!” Vern barked, growling as the man above him stretched to accommodate him. Hops was so, so hot and tight, gorgeously soft, and the slickness between them made him slide in with the littlest motions of the old man’s brilliant hips. He was stunned, even a little annoyed, by the way Hops had snatched control away from him, but if this was his reward for doing it the old man’s way, he’d take it.

Above him, Mr. Grasshopper was obviously getting used to it, but he had to love what he was feeling, if that face had anything to say about it. Eyes closed, expression blissful and faintly smug despite it all, ordinarily neat white hair flopped over his forehead. He looked dirty and debauched and it made Vern want to fuck that last little self-aware smirking composure right out of his head.

His hands--shaking a little, which was fuckin’ embarrassing, but there you had it--settled on Hops’ hips and he waited for the go-ahead. He’d meant what he said. Hops was going to scream for him.

Exceptional, Mr. Grasshopper thought--or really, that was the thought that blazed bright before disappearing beneath the murk of lust and desire and heat. He couldn’t really be said to be “thinking” in any meaningful way at the moment, he supposed. Certainly not at his full capacity.

But if he had to pick, he might just say he liked the full capacity he was experiencing right now just a little better than the other kind.

Vernon was so wonderfully large that it was rather challenging to remain relaxed and even remotely calm, but he managed to keep it together. He felt a bit like purring as he felt himself finally, finally getting a little of what he’d been craving for years. The tone of Vernon’s exclamation scorched his mind, leaving him wanting more of that rough voice. Feeling the man’s hands alight on his hips, Theodore opened his eyes slightly and smirked down on him.

“Are you quite ready?” he asked, the bare hunger in his voice only slightly obscuring the faint but definite playful hint of superiority in his words.

Vernon Centipede didn’t need to be asked twice. Roughly grabbing onto both hips of his lover, he used his strength to lift up the man on top of him. He let out a guttural sound as he then, just as swift, shoved the man back down onto his dick. Vern’s vulgarity returned as he bucked to Theodore tightening around his shaft. This was the momentum they needed to finally lose themselves. No more games. No more challenges. No more fighting for dominance. Just one body wanting to fuck the ever living daylights out of his older lover, and a gentleman who wanted to lose himself to vigorously riding his big bucking bronco.

“Shit! Yes!” the redhead cried, finding his neck rolling from side to side from his pleasure. “Oh god, ah, so fucking tight! Clench like that again, Hop- FUCK YES!”

The gardener felt warm, he felt so hot and dirty, as his skin perspired from the old bastard riding him. But he couldn’t help but smirk in animalistic delight as his hands slipped a little off Mr. Grasshopper’s olive hips. It seemed a certain musician’s skin was just as wet and slippery. So much for clean and proper. He smiled again as he dug his digits deeper into the flesh and bones.

In a distant kind of way, Theodore heard the squeal of the springs of his mattress, the creaking of his bed-frame, the faint susurrus of his linens growing mussed and wrinkled and dirtied. Rather more clearly, he heard the sound of Vernon plunging in and out of him, a wet and filthy noise, and the desperate, dying rasp of his breath as he panted beneath the sweet onslaught. Vernon’s dirty language was loud and clear, as was his harsh puffs of air and his low, delightful little growling noises that were the only prelude to his beautiful obscenity.

It was positively symphonic, not that he imagined he’d ever share such a gorgeous concert with anyone else. Ever.

Still more perfect was the dance that accompanied this music, and that...oh, that was something special. Vernon was so thick and so wonderfully hard, hung like a bloody horse as he was, stretching him in a way that was nothing short of sinful--and well worth the damnation. It was so good to be full, to feel the evidence of a man’s desire and to have his mind just as ravished as his body, his lover’s touch and girth and words and the way he rubbed so tortuously briefly against his prostate leaving him broken and incapable of articulate speech. And yes, those green eyes, and that dirty, smirking mouth, and the press of their slick bodies together, and he was certain he had a severe redhead fetish by now, because bless them, they certainly were firecrackers in bed...

He groaned softly, relishing the heavy slide of their skin. He felt he must surely scream when Vernon pulled him forcibly down on his cock again, but could only make a noise more akin to yelping than anything else. When his lover--God, yes, his lover, not only his gardener, not merely his friend, though surely both together, but the man who’d kissed him and sucked him and was going to make him come with his prick inside him, at last--moved his hands around to clutch his ass and gave him a grin like the Devil’s own seducer, he thought his heart would simply snap in two.

It was a bloody good damn job it didn’t, of course, because he would’ve gone before the choir eternal absolutely blindingly furious.

“Oh yeah, Hops, fuckin’ yeah, ride that fucker, ya horny old son of a bitch, bouncin’ on it, Jesus, should’a guessed you’d fuck like a dirty goddamn animal--”

He made a little noise that wasn’t much of anything except desperately aroused and weighed the option of shifting a bit to ensure his ability to kiss Vernon or stay where he was and have the experience of the entire length of his lover’s prick inside him.

Ever romantic, Mr. Grasshopper decided that kissing could wait a bit.

Other bits of him, however, could not. He would be more than happy to fuck himself on Vernon’s prick if it meant his lover would use his newly freed hands to greater effect on the rest of his body. His skin still screamed for contact and he wanted at least one of those hands taking liberties with his epidermis. He would have to articulate such a desire in a clear, lucid, polite fashion.

“Touch me,” he gasped sharply. “Oh, for the love of God--touch me--I’ll--” He devolved into mere animal noises, unable to express more, his mind splintered with lust.

And the fact his lover went as far as expressing his need was enough for Vernon to give the begging man what he needed-- what he craved with gasping want and breathless tones. And who was the redhead to NOT give into the man above him? To give him the touch that would surely help break him just like Vern wanted? He was a reasonable man. He was a fair man. But mostly he was a hungry man wanting his sexy old bastard crying out his name.

With hands still coated with lubrication, Vernon Centipede wrapped one of his large hands onto the long shaft of his lover. A part of him felt something akin to pride swelling in the back of his head, as he felt the member pulse in his mitts. And as Mr. Grasshopper seemed to easily take over riding the gardener's cock, Vern returned in kind and took out his dominance by squeezing and pumping the length. Up down. Faster and faster. His administrations made Theodore gasp as he tightened himself around the girth inside him.

“Oh shit! Hops-ah- fuckin' Hop!” Vernon felt his hips bucking, and only faintly realized the handjob he was giving was matching to the motions of the man on top of him. “Goddamn I love that! You sexy uptight asshole, making people-oh shit!- making a man want you. Making me want you in ways a man will go straight to hell for.” The redhead mind was no longer thinking. His mouth just ran on and on, as he felt himself nearing the end. “Oh, fu-oh god! Hops!”

And that's all Vernon could manage to say, as he called out his lover's nickname over and over.

Theodore was busy listening to the beautiful way Vernon voiced his pleasure, so caught up in the sensation of hands on his body and a hot, hard cock inside him that the sudden warm wetness of Vernon’s release came as something of a surprise. He groaned softly, shocked by the incredibly filthy thought and sensation of it, heart throbbing as his blood stung bright in his cheeks and chest.

“Oh, Vernon, you animal,” he managed, settling low and grinding deeply on Vernon’s prick, letting him buck out his pleasure as Theodore precariously balanced on one hand, letting the other trace the line of Vernon’s jaw and neck. “My dear man...”

Vern growled and took his hands briefly off of his prick to wrap around Theodore’s neck and drag him down. Theodore went willingly and bent himself to accept the hungry, desperate kiss his lover gave him, hips rocking rather awkwardly as he tried not to overstimulate his lover. He was a little understimulated himself, which he saw with enormous pleasure that Vernon was going to fix, hands and mouth determined to please him.

Theodore had enough wit to declare to himself--more impression than clear thought--that he loved Vernon’s hands. He loved the wide, square palms and the thick, dexterous fingers, the warm, calloused skin that ran so coarsely and yet so admiringly over his starving flesh. It only remained to be seen which one he loved more--the right or the left.

The right had its merits, of course, especially the fact that it was stroking his prick with long, sure pulls, neither too roughly nor too gently, little twists of the wrist and a wet, warm tightness around him making Theodore want to fuck his fist. He bucked his hips gently, wanting to fuck hard but wary of Vernon inside him, teasing his prostate cruelly and filling him, owning him, loving him.

Next round--there would be a next round, he thought with a delirious little smile, and very soon, old age be damned--he was going to get Vernon to fuck him from behind.

Then there was the left hand. While the right was all business, and knew its business well, the left hand had gone on a bit of an explore. It slid up his thigh, the lack of lubricant on its skin making for a somewhat different sensation. Theodore growled softly as it dipped between the hand that stroked him and the prick he was so forcefully fucking and rubbed, hard, against his perineum. It remained only an instant, leaving him bucking and desperately hungry as it slid up his hip, ran along his side, tripped briefly across his stomach, before running up the seam of his chest and alighting above his heart.

Theodore was sure that the hand was keeping its attention on his heartbeat--and the gesture was so simple and so clear, an intuitive understanding of what he needed most that his heart would’ve broken in his chest if he’d been in his right mind.

Fortunately, he wasn’t. But for all that he loved the right hand, and he very certainly did, for who couldn’t love something that knew him so well and wanted his pleasure and made him squirm on Vernon’s prick like this--he might love the left hand just the slightest bit more.

“Vernon,” he panted, as the redhead kissed down his neck. “Vernon, I--I need t-to--”

“Yeah, do it,” Vern grumbled, and the low rumble of his voice was so obviously satisfied, so obviously hungry for him that Theodore felt himself begin to lose his mind. “I wanna see you come hard, Hops, all over yourself, just for me...fuckin’ do it, you sexy prissy bastard, and I want you to scream my name when you lose it--”

His body jerked as if electricity had been passed through it, convulsing in Vernon’s arms, his lover’s name coming out not so much in a scream as in a desperate and appallingly needy little yelp. His mind fragmented and broken apart and he trembled, body stinging with pleasure, his wet heart too hot and huge in his chest, trying to beat through the bars of his bones and nestle in Vernon’s grasp, where it so utterly belonged.

“There ya go, shit man, shaking all over.” Vern said, as his left hand found itself rubbing the man's back. He smiled as he began to lay back, getting more comfortable. “Phew, that was...that was something.”

Mr. Grasshopper, though lost for words, agreed as he rolled off his lover and plopping himself next to him. He panted, catching his breath, all smiles himself, as his nimble fingers ran themselves through his hair.

“I...I believe there are a few better adjectives, Vernon, but I'm afraid it may take me a moment or so to find them.”

“Lost for words, I'm touched.”

Vernon rolled to his side, wanting to take in the man he had just fucked in a way he hadn't quite felt in a long long time. He smirked as he took in the sight of the older man, loving how his chest rose and fell quickly-- the man still trying to catch his breath. His green eyes found themselves going up his body, as Vern's eyes landed on the olive face flushed from their act. He had to admit, that may have been the most attractive sight he had seen yet.

“So,” the gardener paused, as he decided his hands felt a little too sticky for his tastes and he decided to start licking them clean. He spoke in-between his tastings. “So, does that make us 'special friends'? 'Cause I’ll admit, I can get behind that.”

Mr. Grasshopper actually laughed, one hand running up his forehead to neaten his hair. Though the laugh was soft and quiet, it was unrestrained and clear and joyful, and Vern decided that he was going to do everything in his power to make it happen more often. “Well, I daresay after a man so thoroughly debauches me, he has the right to call himself my--”

The older man had turned to smile at him and his eyes, bad as they were, could focus quite clearly on Vern’s hands. A red flush ran up Theodore’s neck as Vern licked his skin clean.

Vern lifted an eyebrow, watching Hops watch him lick. What could he say? He had a little bit of an oral kink and he liked the way Hops tasted. And these sheets were way too rich to risk messing up any more.

“Can I--” Mr. Grasshopper cleared his throat, eyes fastened on the slow, steady motions of his lover’s tongue. Vernon couldn’t possibly be doing such a thing in front of him. “Would you prefer a towel, Vernon?”

“Nah,” Vern said, shrugging. “You’re crashed out, don’t worry about it. Rather do this.”

Mr. Grasshopper swallowed thickly. “Are you quite certain? I’m sure I--”

“Nah. I like it.”

“...you like it?” Mr. Grasshopper asked, torn between total embarrassment and an odd sort of pleasure in that sentiment.

He grinned, waggling his eyebrows at Hops. “For a guy with a dry sense of humor, you got some juice in you, Hops. Tastes pretty good.”

“Oh my good Lord!” Mr. Grasshopper cried, tearing his eyes away. “You’re incorrigible!”

Vern laughed. “What, you’re getting all prim now, after you nearly broke my dick in half? Let a man have his kink! You seem to like it!”

Mr. Grasshopper cleared his throat and abruptly wished he had his monocle with him. He had a spare pair of glasses somewhere in his chest of drawers but didn’t think it worth getting up. “In any event,” he said, darting a quick glance at Vernon to see if he’d stopped doing such a distracting thing with his mouth. “Yes. If you are in support of it, I would consider us to be very close friends indeed.”

“If we got any closer, Hops, I think we might actually damage somethin'. “ Vern laughed, finishing up his cleaning before wrapping an arm around the other man. “But yeah, I ain't gonna turn down a friendship that includes messing around and dinner.”

“There will be dinners?”

“Well, YEAH, I for one get practically starved after a good lay.”

Mr. Grasshopper couldn't help but smile as he jokingly asked his next question.

“And are you requiring something to satisfy that hunger? I'm sure there might be a little something in my pantries. Or we can order a couple meals.”

“Ha, I think I like ya like this. All cheeky n' full of y'self.” The redhead's hand absentmindedly began to rub his boss' shoulder as he went on. “But yeah, I could go for a bite. Though....”

Grasshopper raised a brow.

“Though?”

“To be honest, I'm kinda in a mood for a round two. That is, if your old bones can handle another go-around.”

Mr. Grasshopper opened his mouth to reply, only to find his words stolen as Vernon leaned over and kissed his neck so gently and sweetly, he thought he’d go mad. The gardener kissed down his throat and planted three soft pecks on his collarbone, before lifting Mr. Grasshopper’s right hand to his mouth. Vernon kissed his palm, making his fingers spasm beneath such a sensual onslaught, and as Vernon began to massage his hand lightly, Theodore, still breathless, felt his heart tremble violently within his chest as the redhead pressed his lips to the scar the lawnmower blade had left on his thumb.

He knew in an instant that he was falling so deeply in love, he’d never recover. He had to say something, do something, to hide it or he’d scare Vernon off before things ever began.

“My old bones, sir?” Mr. Grasshopper asked, giving Vernon a superior look, hoping his breathlessness would be attributed to the impromptu hand massage Vernon was giving him. “I’m sure I beg your pardon, but I rather thought I was the one that outlasted you. Age has nothing to do with it.”

Vern growled, grinning, pleased with the way Grasshopper was getting a little mouthy. “Don’t disqualify a guy because he’s getting his dick rode by a horny sex bomb. Ain’t my fault you were loving up on me like you were dyin’!”

“Are you telling me I’m too much for you, Vernon?” Mr. Grasshopper asked, lifting his chin with a playful, challenging smile. “I had thought you were more man that that. How disappointing.”

Vern rolled on top of him. “Oh, now ya did it,” he grunted, determined to keep Hops underneath him this time. He kissed the old man hard, hands hungrily groping him. “Hope you ain’t tired, Hops, ‘cause now I’m gonna drain you dry...”

Mr. Grasshopper just smiled blissfully and decided that they’d have to order in.


End file.
